Two Weeks of Sunshine
by comptine
Summary: AU. What Arthur had expected on his trip of the vineyards of France was solitude, good wine, and a quiet end to his rather disastrous love life. What he had not expected was a hostel in Rome with a Frenchman, no wine and rainy start to a long summer.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The City of Paris was everything Arthur Kirkland had expected. Immense, vociferous and - above all else - French. Call him a British man to the end but he preferred the meandering streets of London to the cramped roads of _La Ville-Lumière_. But that's not to say he was completely opposed to French culture. Despite their terrible military history, supercilious culinary views and general "French-ness" Arthur would not scoff at their wine.

Arthur was a connoisseur of fine drinks, from the heavy ales of Germany to the bitter spirits of the north; Arthur had them all. He wasn't an expert per say - The International Wine Guildhad rejected his application for sommelier for the fourth time last week - but he knew the difference between a 1973 Barolo and a 1982 Bordeaux Merlot and could tell the vintage and place of origin from one sip. So, in order to further his knowledge of wine and show the world that the English weren't tasteless barbarians who drink to get drunk, he decided to tour the vineyards of the French countryside.

Not that his trip was only for his love of wine, oh no, there was a much bigger reason that Arthur was practically fleeing his country. Back at his flat on Blackfriar was his ex-fiancé. Though he seriously doubted that Alfred was still living there. After their fight where Alfred had claimed that Arthur was a bastard and he never wanted to see him again, Arthur wasn't really expecting a welcoming party when he got the guts to return to his home.

Things had been going so smoothly and then one day Alfred started acting very weird and promptly broke-up with Arthur. At first, Arthur didn't believe him, thinking it was his insipid American humour kicking in. Only when the golden engagement ring was thrown to the ground did he finally get that Alfred was serious. Without a word, he had packed his things, told Alfred to leave before he returned from his trip, and left.

And now he found himself on the Seine, sitting on a bridge, feet dangling over the dark waters as he sipped a glass of wine, his small suitcase propped under his arm. People moved all around him, ignoring him due to his slightly hobo-ish appearance, though a few stopped long enough to inspect the label on the wine. Overhead, the sky sparkled with satellites and airplanes, the light emanating from the city too bright for the stars to shine through. Down the river, the Eiffel Tower shimmered brightly. Arthur scoffed, downing his wine. The _Tour Eiffel_ held nothing to the majesty Westminster Abbey, Stonehenge or the Cambridge.

He reached for the bottle and he was surprised to find it empty. Wondering how he could've drunk so much and not feel remotely less depressed, he struggled to his feet. Straightening his sweater-vest, he reached into his trench coat pocket, pulling out his worn leather wallet. He fished out a few bills, intending to pay a cabbie to take him to his hotel. As he turned, a man slammed into him, sending him flailing backwards. His back contacted the banister and he clung to it, barely saving himself from flipping over and diving into the river.

Swearing, he unclenched his hands from the stone and went to grab his wallet. In the moment that followed, he heard nothing but the quiet 'plop' as something plunged into the water. Wheeling around he stared into the murky depths of the river, catching a glimpse of his wallet before it was swallowed by darkness. Each item within flashed by in his mind's eye: his passport, his tour schedule, a couple hundred Euros, a driver's licence, his credit card, a few expired giftcards and a Super Shopper card from his local grocer's.

He leaned against the railing, counting backwards from ten. As if his luck wasn't bad enough in the first place. Wondering vaguely if his hotel card was in his pocket, he fished in them. A sigh escaped his lips as his fingers found nothing but lint and few coins. Now what was he going to do? He was stranded in the middle of a foreign city with nothing to his name but an empty bottle of wine and a suitcase with two shirts and a book. He knew he needed help but he didn't know anyone in France and his brother was currently exploring Northern Canada. That only left one person he could call on for aid.

Telling himself this wasn't crawling back, he set off to the nearest payphone. Picking the receiver off the main console, he gave the mouthpiece a quick rub with the sleeve of his jacket before feeding his coins into the machine. As he dialled the number to his flat, praying that Alfred was still there, he froze on the last digit. He really didn't need _his_ help. With these few coins he could buy a snack, maybe the hotel would remember him, he did pay in advance.

While his mind weighed possible options, his finger unconsciously hit the last button. Only once a very tired voice crackled through the earpiece did Arthur snap out of his deliberations. "This better be important…" Arthur's brain stopped all functions, "Hello?" the voice asked again, "This better not be a prank call or I swear I'm going to kill whoever-"

"Al, it's me." Arthur wasn't sure if there was a more feeble way to start the conversation. Alfred was on the phone. His partner. His ex-fiancé. His lover. He could hear the heavy breathing on the other side, "Al?" He tried again.

"Arthur," Alfred said quietly. As Arthur listened, he could hear him crawl out of bed, stomping out of the bedroom. He could see Alfred standing in the middle of their living room, nothing on but those ridiculous eagle boxers he always wore. "Why are you calling?"

_I'm still in love with you. Please take me back._ "I'm stuck in Paris and I just dropped my passport and wallet into the river." He turned his back to the prying eyes of the pedestrians. "Do you think you could help me?"

There was a groan from the other side of the phone, but as far as Arthur could tell it wasn't Alfred. "You shouldn't have called." Alfred said, tone strangely firm.

Arthur leaned his forehead against the dirty glass of the booth. "I know I shouldn't be calling you," He said, his free hand forming a fist, "But there is no one else!" He yelled the last three words, attracting him even more unwanted attention. Shirking off some pondering gazes he closed his eyes.

"You have a brother," Alfred said, "Did you try calling him?"

"Matthew's in the tundra. I can't get a hold of him."

There a pregnant pause before Alfred spoke. His voice had lost its grave quality and now sounded a little more relaxed. "Well," A smile twitched at Arthur's lips. This was the Alfred he knew and loved, "Arthur, I could maybe…"

"Alfred?" Arthur's heart stopped. That was not Alfred's voice. It was deep, tinged with an accent he had heard only once in his lifetime and that was when he had his first drink of vodka, "Who are you talking to?" The voice came closer to the phone. Arthur listened in a stunned silence. He was sure that was the sound of light kisses and that was definitely the hint of a moan from Alfred.

Gone two days and Alfred had already found someone new. Was he really that bad a lover? Has Alfred really been that unsatisfied with him? Did Alfred really work that fast? Or was this the product of a long-time affair that was only now coming to light? Arthur sagged against the booth, suddenly feeling very small.

"Arthur? You still there? _Get off me Iv…_" Alfred asked, chuckling quietly.

Images of Alfred being held by tall, faceless man - in _his_ apartment even - flared up in Arthur's mind. He clutched the phone, doing his best to keep his calm and not smash the receiver into a thousand pieces. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece and had a little spasm of unintelligible rage, then slowly lifted the phone back to his ear. "Iv?" He ground out.

He could almost see Alfred flinch from the restrained fury in his voice. "My new… my new… roommate." _Lying through his goddamn teeth._ "Yeah, roommate. Listen, I gotta go, good luck and everything. Send me a postcard." The line went dead.

Arthur stared at the handset from which a dial tone was droning. Calmly, he hung up the phone and backed out of the booth, picking his suitcase. He only made a few steps before the leather case fell from his hand. "Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, _fuck_." He exploded, "Fuck you Alfred F. Jones! FUCK YOU!" This outburst was followed by a yell of incomprehensible rage. Arthur bent over, hands on his knees as he wheezed for breath, his lungs burning.

At least people were giving him a wide berth now. Crouching he wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his face in his knees, trying to ignore the warm pricks at the corners of his eyes. He hated how he still wanted Alfred. He hated the monster of jealousy that was growing in his gut. He hated how he felt so helpless without him. He hated how the bottle of wine wasn't doing it's job.

The rest of the world was not sympathetic to his plight. A car honked at him and he could hear the driver yelling at him in French. People were gathering now, the horn was still blaring and a boat was on the river, a loud wedding party taking place on its deck, adding a throbbing beat to the chaos. Arthur didn't move, just lifted his hands and clamped them over his ears, trying think through the din. Maybe if the car hit him, he'd get severe brain damage and end up in a coma for rest of his life. Vegetables could still drink, right?

Before he could bash his head into the front of the car, two hands had grabbed his shoulders, hoisting him to his feet. A new, much calmer, French voice joined the noise and confusion. He kept his eyes closed and his hands over his ears, the unfamiliar touch somehow comforting amid the havoc of the street. The quiet rustling of leaves and the gentle whisper of the water soon replaced the roar of the avenue. The hands pressed down, making him sit. Finally daring to open his eyes, Arthur removed his hands from his ears.

He was under a bridge, sitting on a grassy hill that dipped into the Seine. Above, people still milled along, but the sound was somewhat muted now. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "_Que faisiez-vous sur la rue? C'est pas un bonne idée, particulièrement en la nuit._"

Arthur glanced to his side, wondering if he was just imagining the voice. The man beside him was the kind of man you would imagine you would find backstage of a modern production of _A Midsummer's Night Dream_ waiting to come out and seduce the audience with his simple line of "_The course of true love never did run smooth._" His long blond hair was pulled back into long ponytail that hung limply over his shoulder. The handsome face had an angled chin covered in a light dusting of five o'clock shadow and his blue eyes peered worriedly at Arthur. His tall, lanky body was wrapped in a black turtleneck and dark, slightly tattered jeans and a cream coat was draped over his shoulders. Beside him was a lumpy duffel bag, worn with use.

"_Monsieur?_ _Écoutez-vous?_" He waved his elegant hand in front of Arthur's face, frowning. Arthur had never seen such a _French_-looking man, which really didn't help with his already incensed mood.

Arthur grabbed the waving hand, making the Frenchman jump. Smirking, he decided to release a little of his anger. "I can't understand you because you speak a bloody language that no else gets or cares about. I hate your country, I hate your language and I hate you, you stupid French bastard." He cackled, revelling in his own brilliance. If there was one thing he loved to do, it was insult people, and it was even better when you could do it in a dialect they didn't understand.

An elegant eyebrow quirked. "Don't you think this 'bastard' deserves a thank you? Or are you really so English that you can't thank me properly?" The Frenchman ripped his hand away from Arthur's getting to his feet, "_Monsieur?_" He folded his arms over his chest, shaking strands of hair out of his eyes.

Arthur scrambled to his feet, his chortles stopping at once. "I…" But there was nothing else in his mind. When he insulted people, they weren't supposed to _talk back._ That was cheating.

Scoffing, the man stalked up the hill, snatching up Arthur's suitcase - which he had apparently picked up while Arthur had his meltdown - and, in a sudden violent movie, lobbed it at the smaller man. It caught him in the gut, send him flying backwards. He slide down the incline and stopping only a foot from the edge of the water. As he rolled onto his stomach, groaning, he caught his reflection in the water. His face red with embarrassment and a spot of dirt on his nose.

Back up the knoll, the Frenchman was laughing, golden hair shining in the streetlight. "_Ah, c'est le karama_, _non?_" He carefully moved down the hill, grabbing the scruff of Arthur's coat and heaving him up and plopping him down on a bench. "We're even now and we can start our meeting again. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot as you say. Don't you agree, _Sourcils_?" The change in the man's comportment was unnerving. Not one minute ago he was a brooding, angry frog, and now he was Mister I'm-so-charming-I'll-be-in-your-pants-within-the-next-hour.

Arthur didn't trust him - and not just because he was French. "What the hell?" He asked, shuffling away from the man, clutching his suitcase to his chest, scared the man was going to rip his shirt off and shag him right there. "What's going on?! Who are you? You almost killed me there!"

"Well," The man tucked his hair behind his ear, smiling, "You were yelling profanities in the middle of the street, then crouched in front of a car. I simply moved you and then you yelled at me and then we ended up here." He gestured around the dingy street.

Scowling, Arthur stood, drawing himself to his full height. "Profanities? Well, _pardon my French._" He said, inflicting every word with as much scorn as possible, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go drown myself in a bottle of Merlot."

He began to walk away. "I have two tickets to Rome." The Frenchman called after him, but not rising from the bench, "Want to come?"

Cursing his own sense of intrigue, Arthur wheeled about. He took a deep breath, pulling a face at the musky smell of cars and the Seine. "You're seriously offering me, a total stranger, to come with you on a trip to Rome?" Folding his arms, he raised his eyebrows.

"_Oui_."

Around them, the street continued to move. People pushed by Arthur, talking, laughing and gambling about, enjoying the rich summer night. A gentle breeze played with his coat, nudging him forward. Sighing, he ran a hand through his short hair. Something told him he was seriously going to regret this. "Why the hell not. Let's go."

The Frenchman jumped to his feet, grabbed Arthur's hand and pulled him to the main road. He threw out an arm, hailing a taxi, which immediately rounded the corner and parked. Opening the door, he stepped back, offering the seat. Arthur hesitated and took a step away from the cab.

"What's wrong?" The man asked, waving off the driver's inquiring words.

"I don't even know your name." Arthur said, clearly playing for time. Leaning against the taxi, the tall man shook his head, hair flopping into his eyes while he laughed mockingly, "Forgive me for wanting to know the name of the man who's whisking me away to Rome, if that even where you intend to take me!" Arthur spat at him, his cheeks burning, "For all I know, you could be taking me to Siberia and intend to sell me to the Mafia!"

"Francis Bonnefoy." He bowed his head, "Happy?"

Francis Bonnefoy. This man wanted to take him to Rome. This man was offering him nothing more than a train ticket. They had no other ties. He could leave, say no, and forget this ever happened. One trip to the British Embassy and he could have all his papers in order.

Wondering if the wine had really been that strong, Arthur he stepped forward and clambered into the taxi. Francis climbed in after him, telling the driver a few directions. They both sat back in their seats, saying nothing and not looking at each other. Francis reached into his pocket and pulled out two rumpled tickets.

"Arthur." Francis looked over. The small Brit was staring out the window, his eyes reflecting the streetlights, "Arthur Kirkland."

"It's nice to meet you," A smile tugged at his lips as they neared the train station, "Arthur Kirkland."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Explanations and translations

_Que faisiez-vous sur la rue? C'est pas un bonne idée, particulièrement en la nuit._ - What are you doing on the road? It's not a good idea, especially at night. (no shit)

_Monsieur?_ _Écoutez-vous?_- Sir? Are you listening?

_Ah, c'est le karama_, _non?_ - Ah, this is karma, no?

_Sourcils_ - IT'S A SURPRISE. SHHHH. Don't go looking it up XD

Arthur and Matthew are brothers while Alfred is related to neither of them.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Arthur would admit that his misgivings were put to rest as soon as they boarded the train and were lead to a first class cabin. He was also impressed that Francis' smooth talk managed to get him on the train sans-passport. Perhaps it was because of the fifty he saw him slide so casually into the guard's hand.

Inside the compartment was a small table and a pair of big, stuffy armchairs surrounded it. There were even two separate beds, settling the feeling of imminent assault that had been nagging at him. He sat down on a bed, marvelling at the comfort of the mattress while Francis sat in a chair, propping his feet up on the small table.

"So why did you have two tickets to Rome?" Arthur slid his coat off, throwing it over a chair. His entire body felt heavy, but he felt as though he should at least try to talk to the man taking him to Rome.

"I was originally going with my cousin," said Francis, "but his sister got sick and he had to stay behind in Switzerland."

"Oh…" Arthur kicked his shoes off and lay down on the bed, relaxing. Not falling asleep, just resting.

"Instead of throwing away two perfectly good tickets, I'd figure I'd find someone to go with, or just go alone." Francis continued, idly playing with a thread on his shirt.

There was a knock at the door and an attendant walked into the room. On his tray he balanced a number of mugs and glasses. "A nightcap, _monsieurs_?"

Arthur waved him over and took a mug of steaming milk. Francis only took a glass of water, thanking the man. "It's all worked in the end I guess," He said, swirling the clear liquid around, "Vash probably would've complained about spending too much money on this compartment anyway. He's a Swiss through and through." He laughed quietly, sipping his water.

There was no response. Arthur was already fast asleep, the mug held against his cheek as he snored lightly. Sighing, Francis stepped towards the young man and pulled the mug out of his hands. After a moment's consideration, he picked up Arthur's discarded coat and tucked it over him. Taking his seat, the blue eyes watched the window as the train pulled out of the station. Rain had begun to fall by the time he called it a night and curled into his own bed, dimming the light and falling asleep.

The train swayed violently, jerking Arthur out of his sleep. He gazed around the dark cabin, rubbing his eyes. In the other bed, Francis was sleeping quietly, back turned away from him. Outside, the countryside slide back, illuminated by dull moonlight. Rain splattered against the window while in the distance, large storm clouds wreathed and coiled, lightning flashes every few minutes. He glanced at his wristwatch, trying to angle it so he could see it in the darkness.

_3:38._

Arthur fell back onto his pillow and place a hand on his head, staring at the ceiling of the compartment. He was exhausted, but now that he was awake, everything seemed so much clamorous. The jerking of the train, the bombard of rain and the almost constant rumble of thunder. How did he manage to sleep through all of it? He glanced at his watch again.

_3:40._

Forcing his eyes shut, he rolled onto his side. The train entered a tunnel and everything went quiet. Arthur sighed happily, already drifting back to sleep. Just as he was almost asleep, the train burst back into the outside world just as a particularly loud peal of thunder erupted through the sky.

Moaning, Arthur pulled his pillow over his head, attempting to dampen the sound. He sat there for God knows how long, keeping the cushion secured over his ears, until he fell into a fitful sleep. His dreams were filled with odd references to Cossacks, Old Country and - always in the most compromising of positions - Alfred. Each dream was worse than the last making his already troubled mind even more unsettled.

At 8 am Arthur awoke. He sat up immediately, trying to blink the image of Alfred and a faceless man out of his mind. Francis was already up, sitting at the table, reading the newspaper while munching on a piece of toast. Francis noticed his companion and smiled, "_Bonjour Sourcils,_" He said, waving the bread temptingly, "Want some breakfast?" The train shifted suddenly and Arthur groaned, sliding back under the covers and falling back into a restless doze.

An hour later, a hand found his shoulder, shaking him awake. "Get up or else you're going to be trapped on the train."

Arthur rolled over, blearily looking around the compartment. "Wha?"

"Up." Francis repeated sternly, pinching his cheeks, "Make sure to eat something before we leave, not sure when we're going to eat next."

In a stupor, Arthur slid out of bed and pulled on his shoes. As the train coasted to a stop, he grabbed a muffin, shoving it into his mouth. Francis put on his own white coat and turned to see if Arthur was ready. The man was sitting on the bed, his head tilted back, snoring. Grabbing the suitcase and the heavy trench coat Francis tugged it over Arthur's shoulders and pushed him out of the train onto the rainy platform.

He dragged Arthur into a taxi, ignoring the face that he seemed to be in a comatose state. "_Via Del Sole_," He directed, looking at a folded piece of paper in his pocket, "There's a hostel on that street, you know where it is?" The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb.

The trip through the streets of Rome was nothing more than a blur of foggy buildings and a swaying, perilous taxi ride to Arthur's half-awake mind. He spent most on his slumped into his corner, green eyes fluttering open every few moments as he attempting to stay awake. Francis was talking to the drive enthusiastically in broken Italian, while the windshield wipers beat endless against the rain, sending him into a trance-like state. The car slowed suddenly, breaking him out of his daze.

Francis paid the driver, thanked him and hauled Arthur out of the taxi. The cab pulled away and disappeared around a corner. Arthur opened his eyes as rain splattered onto his face, yawning widely. The damp air was tinted with the sweet smell of the ocean and he found himself waking up promptly. Rubbing his eyes free of sleep, he stared up at the building across the street.

The hostel was three stories tall, leaning slightly to the left, towards the sea. Bright red letters announced its name - _La Dolce Vita_ - while the rest of the building was coated in a peeling creamy yellow paint. Square windows decorated the wall in a seemingly random fashion. A tall stone enclosure ran around the left of the building, hiding a small courtyard. The hostel in all looked like it was scheduled to be demolished.

"I'm not staying here." Arthur said simply.

"You don't have a choice." Francis said.

"Of course I do! I am a grown man!" He planted his feet and folded his arms across his chest and stuck out his tongue. Very mature in his opinion.

Francis raised an eyebrow, clearly at the end of his rope. There was only so much grumpy English-men grousing he could handle. "Are you? Well my little _garçon_ I hope you have fun in the rain." Francis walked towards the door and, giving Arthur a smug smile over his shoulder, stepped inside.

Arthur stuck his lips out as the rain intensified. Thunder grumbled overhead, warning him of the coming torrential downpour. He conceded, not to the Frenchman, but to the sword. He may be British but that didn't mean he enjoyed the rain. Picking up his suitcase he lifted his arm over his head and hastened after Francis, pulling the door open to the hostel.

The lobby was barely the size of his living room. Across the room, an old wooden staircase spiralled out of view. Beside the door that Arthur suspected led out to the courtyard, there was an old, tattered armchair and a side table covered in months-old magazines. A desk was shoved into a corner; behind it was a young brunet man who was sleeping peacefully on his folded arms, a single curl sticking out the side of his head.

After giving Arthur yet another satisfied smirk, Francis stepped up to the counter and nudged the young man. Hazel eyes opened slowly, blinking repeatedly as he looked between the two men in his lobby. "_Ciao_!" He said, voice light and friendly, "_Benvenuto a 'La Dolce Vita'_, my name is Feliciano. Do you have a reservation?" A leather book was pulled out from under the desk and flipped through. Arthur noticed that none of the pages seemed to have writing on them whatsoever.

"No, we do not," said Francis, resting his arm on the desk, long fingers toying with the edge of the book, "We need a room for two please, a view of the ocean if you have it."

The young man nodded, picking up a pen and marking something in the registration. "And that will be one bed?"

"What!?"

"_Mon Dieu_!"

"No way! There's no chance in hell-"

"The idea is simply appalling-"

"That I would ever even-"

"Me? With that impolite, foul-mouthed,"

"Think of touching that dirty-"

"Bush-browed, smug,"

"Conceited, utterly self-involved,"

"_Stupide Anglais_!"

"French bastard!"

Feliciano stared between the two men, looking fearful for his life. "Two beds then." He said, marking the page with a tick.

"Feli?" The three men turned in the direction of the staircase, "What's going on here?" On the stairs was a burly, hulk-of-a-man. His blond hair was pulled back in a severe flattop while a black wife beater showed off his fit body. In his gloved hand he held a wrench, tapping it pensively against the palm of his other hand. Sharp blue eyes glared from behind a pair of half-rim glasses.

Francis and Arthur paled and shuffled closer to each other. Feliciano flounced over to the man, taking his arm and dragging him towards the two guests. They stared at him, shirking back and huddling even closer. The blue eyes blinked slowly down at them.

"This is Ludwig Beilschmidt!" Feliciano said, clinging to the man, "Our repairman. He's from Germany and he's very tall and very strong." His cheeks puffed out as he saluted flimsily.

Ludwig offered a hand. "Pleased to meet you." Arthur took it, eyeing the Iron Cross that hung around the thick neck. A Frenchman, a lazy Italian and a German soldier, truly the winning combination to an Englishman's vacation.

After the brief introductions, Ludwig climbed back up the stairs, saying something about fixing the leaking pipes on the third floor. Only once his dark boots had disappeared around the corner did Arthur and Francis relax. Feliciano smiled at both of them. "Let me show you your room."

Feliciano walked up the stairs, the fourth one squeaking loudly. "What that step, it creaks." He commented unhelpfully.

As then reached the second landing, they saw that only two doors lead off the small hallways before continuing up another set of stairs. From the floor above, they could hear the echo of metal on metal, most likely Ludwig working on the pipes.

"The bathroom's down the hall." Feliciano said, gesturing vaguely. He pulled a key out of his pocket and placed it in the first door's lock, opening it. Arthur stepped inside, Francis peaking in after him.

Rain splattered against French doors that led onto a small balcony. The rest of the room was bare save for two beds and a small wardrobe and desk. The wooden furniture had definitely seen better days and Arthur sniffed and immediately surmised that the room obviously hadn't been inhabited for weeks, maybe even months. Francis slide beside him, throwing his coat onto a bed and hurrying over closed doors, staring at the murky ocean. He turned back to Arthur, a broad smile on his face. "It's perfect! We'll take it!"

"Wait a second," Arthur said quickly and, in a much quieter voice, "Francis, are you sure about this? I don't mind paying for an actual hotel." He glanced over his shoulder at the Italian. Feliciano was leaning against the hallway wall, humming happily to himself.

Francis snaked an arm over the younger man's shoulders. "But my dear Arthur. Have you forgotten? You have no money." He smiled at the slack jawed expression, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "We'll have two keys please, Feliciano. And do you think you could point us in the direction of the nearest restaurant? I am, how you say _affamé_ after our long journey."

Perking up at the sound of his name, Feliciano wandered over to the Frenchman, handing over two silver keys from his pocket. "There's a great café down the road, they have the most delicious pasta there. It's called _Tramonto_, the owner is my grandfather, Roma." He frowned for a moment, poking his nose with his finger, "Actually, I'm hungry right now. I will join you!" And before Francis or Arthur could say otherwise, he flounced from the room.

Shrugging at Arthur, the tall blond followed Feliciano down the stairs. Sighing, Arthur hurried after him, wincing as his foot contacted the fourth step, which whined irritably. As they entered the lobby, they were surprised to find two new people standing beside Ludwig and Feliciano. One had beautiful tanned skin, bright green eyes and was bothering a shorter man who bore an unmistakable resemblance to Feliciano, though his face did not have the same dopey smile. Serious Feliciano - as he would be called until a proper name was given- was yelling loudly at the other man, calling him a bastard and numerous other names.

Noticing his two guests, Feliciano introduced them to the fighting men. "This is my older brother, Lovino," He said, gesturing at his look-alike, "And this is one of our guests, Antonio. He's from Spain." The tanned man gave a cheery wave, resting an arm on Lovino's shoulder, ignoring his profanity-ridden objections. Obviously Lovino did not like Antonio; obviously Antonio didn't seem to care.

Arthur wondered vaguely if he would meet a normal person on this trip as they all stepped out into the cool night. Immediately, everyone paired up. Antonio and Lovino were ahead, the Italian yelling loudly at Antonio while he laughed, ruffling the younger man's hair. Ludwig walked with Feliciano, answering the happy Italian in a gruff, low voice. These couplings left himself and Francis to walk side-by-side, an awkward silence stretching between them.

What do you say to a man that you've known for less than twenty-fours, most of which you were either sleeping, in an inert state or yelling at him? "Nice night." Arthur commented vaguely. The weather. How cliché.

Francis looked at him. "Hmm? Did you say something?"

"No, I was just…" He trailed off and they said nothing the remainder of their short walk.

_Tramonto_ did not stand out from the countless other buildings on the street save for it's bright red door. As they gathered in front of it, Arthur taking note of the darkened windows and the sign that hung on the door that read 'Closed.' He scowled, hugging himself and shivering. "You don't even know when the one restaurant on this street is open?" He spat at Feliciano.

Behind him, Ludwig stiffened, glaring at the Englishman, but Feliciano seemed completely unfazed. "Don't be silly! Of course it's open!" And, ignoring the 'Closed', he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Everyone followed after him, Arthur going in last, hoping they weren't about to get jumped by the Italian Mafia.

Knowing his luck, he'd be Feliciano's bitch before the hour was up.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The restaurant was very cramped, only having a few tables with a multitude of mismatched chairs sprinkled between them. A bell chimed over their heads as the door swung shut. There was a clang of pots from behind a freestanding wall and a man appeared from behind it, wiping his hands in his vivid red apron. He had ragged beard, a brawny build and his short, curly brown hair made him look like an ancient gladiator. Only his warm brown eyes - and perhaps the white frills on the apron - hinted at a less primaeval demeanour.

"Feliciano! Lovino!" He boomed, pulling the brothers into an embrace. Feliciano grinned, returning the hug while Lovino was doing his best to appear surly, though he also hugged the man, albeit half-heartedly. "Good to see you!"

The man then stepped towards Ludwig and Antonio, greeting them with hearty pats on the backs. Antonio winced, smiling weakly while Ludwig grunted in response. He laughed cheerfully before arriving at Arthur and Francis. He towered over them, frowning. "French," He said, pointing at Francis, "And English, if I'm not wrong." He finished, looking at Arthur."

"This is Francis and Arthur, new guests we have." Feliciano said happily, grabbing their arms and steering them into the heart of the restaurant, sitting them down between Ludwig and Antonio. It was a large round table, a guttering candle sitting in the middle, shaking as everyone sat down. There was an empty chair between Lovino and Feliciano, which Arthur suspected was for the chef. "This is our grandfather, Papa Roma." Feliciano said.

"You're just in time," Roma said, "I was just putting on some spaghetti, I'll add a bit more though as we seem to have a few more guests than usual." He moved into the back and they could hear the hiss of oil and a knife chopping. Arthur looked around, taking in the restaurant's atmosphere, but mostly doing his best to deter anymore from trying to engage him in conversation.

Fifteen minutes later, the chef remerged, two steaming plates held in his hands while balanced between his forearms was a long roll of bread dripping in butter. As Arthur attempted to figure out how he possibly could've cooked all of that in such a short time - his meals usually took upwards of four hours, and that was just KraftDinner - Roma dropped the food onto the table. "_Gode di_!" He said, taking his seat.

Eating with such a large group was something Arthur hadn't done since he had lived with his parents. Often their house would be filled with an assortment of odd guests, some famous, others people his parents seemed to a have picked off the street not an hour before. Matthew always hid in his room, so it was up to Arthur to be the upstanding young gentleman of the party, which usually meant listening to people talk about things he didn't care about and pretending to be interested.

After he moved out, there was never any need to have parties. He had spent most of his years at business school alone in his room, studying. Once he graduated, he had immediately started working and since he swore never to start work relationships, even friendships, he found himself eating take-out alone in his apartment, usually bent over papers. The largest group of people he had for dinner in the last five years was three, and that was Alfred, Matthew and himself, not exactly a roaring party.

But supper with the Vargas and their troop of misfits was anything but the sophisticated soirées or solo take-out nights or supper with Alfred. Everyone was talking over the everyone else, trying to make themselves heard over the clattering of plates and cutlery. Food was passed around the table at a constant rate so that someone was always grabbing a bowl, sliding food onto their plate or drizzling sauce onto their pasta. Arthur couldn't help but feel as an outsider, mumbling unheard thank-yous as he had food served to him.

Once the pasta had been shared, everyone started to eat, though this really didn't lower the level of noise, only added a whole new host of sounds. Arthur picked at this food, feeling very out-of-place within such a tightly knit group, watching Roma playfully bother Lovino while Feliciano was feeding a blushing Ludwig pasta off his own fork, chattering happily.

Arthur felt a sudden pressure along his left arm and looked round to see Francis leaning against him. "_Détendre_," He said, poking Arthur's cheek with a long finger, "They're not going to bite." Francis lifted off him and turned back to Antonio, listening as he gabled on about his dance career.

Filled with a small bubble of encouragement, Arthur looked to his left, noticing that Ludwig was no longer talking to Feliciano. "So," He said, raising his voice. The mechanic looked at him, blue eyes inquiring, "You… are German, yes?"

"Yes. I lived in Berlin until I was twenty, then spent another two in Vienna was two. I moved here with my cousin, uncle and brother last year. It's a nice city." Ludwig said, casting a sideway glance to the small Italian beside him. Feliciano was chatting to Roma, waving his arms around in earnest while Lovino was shaking his head and Roma was laughing.

"He's not really their grandfather," Arthur asked, leaning close to Ludwig and lowering his voice conspiratorially, "Is he?" Just as these words left his mouth, he realized that he couldn't have said anything more brutish. It wasn't his job to pry and asking the German who seemed to fancy the Italian wasn't exactly the most intelligent of things to say.

"No," Ludwig said blue eyes flicking to Feliciano, "Roma is their guardian. He has taken care of the boys since their parents died. He isn't related by blood, but has known the Vargas since they were children and was very good friends with their parents." And, before Arthur could ask any more questions, Ludwig began to eat, making sure to not open himself to the Brit in anyway.

Arthur was just glad that he still had his head. The rest of the supper he spent in silence, eating the pasta and listening on the occasional conversation, adding in a word or two every so often. After an hour and numerous helpings, everyone was finally done. The talking had died down and now the men were sitting back in their chairs, slightly dazed smiles on their faces.

"Do you have any wine?" Arthur asked, pushing away his plate and rubbing his belly contentedly. A simple Chianti would finish off this night perfectly. Beside him, Francis sat up, looking interested at the mention of the drink.

"Nope, fresh out, won't be expecting any for the next week and a bit." Roma said, getting to his feet and beginning to gather the plates, tucking them under his arm. Feliciano and Lovino also helped, the older bickering at younger one, telling him to not drop any plates like every other time.

The Brit's face fell. "Do you not have delivery out here?" He asked, unable to keep a sharp edge out of his voice.

"The man I usually get it from, his uncle," He said, giving Ludwig a good-natured cuff over his head, "Hates me at the moment so I'm dry. But it's alright, not many people drink it." Roma moved into the back where they could here the dishes clatter into a large sink. They listened as Lovino started yelling and Feliciano could be heard laughing, telling his brother to look at all the bubbles.

"What about trifle?" Arthur called after him, slightly desperate. The three men reappeared, Lovino poking Feliciano's forehead, while the younger brother held a bubble in his hand, hurrying over and showing it the German.

When Ludwig leaned over the small hands but the bubble popped. Feliciano's smile fell slightly and the mechanic's stoic face twitched. Ludwig got to his feet, went to the kitchen and emerged with another bubble supported in his calloused hands. Ludwig passed the bubble carefully over to the Italian, muttering an apology. Smiling, Feliciano leaned forward and kissed the bubble making it pop. "_Grazie_." He said. As Ludwig took his seat, Arthur couldn't help but notice the pale cheeks flushed a light pink.

"I haven't ever made trifle." Roma said, who had been watching the exchange with an amused look, "I have tiramisù though."

Arthur frowned. "I've never had it."

There was sudden silence. Antonio stopped bothering Lovino, who had actually fallen quiet. Feliciano's smile turned into an 'o' of disbelief while Ludwig looked simply bewildered. Thinking there was probably something he was missing, Arthur cast a questioning look at Francis, who was grinning at him.

"You've never had tiramisù?" Feliciano asked, usually closed eyes wide and staring. "B-but…"

Roma was already on his feet, opening the small dessert fridge and pulling out a large pan, using a knife to cut out a square and sliding onto a plate before placing it delicately in front of Arthur. The guest leaned forward sniffling it interestedly. "Kahlúa?" He asked, poking the square with his fork. The Roman nodded, taking a step away and folding his arms over his chest. Stabbing into the dessert, Arthur lifted it to his mouth, smelling it again. Chocolaty, definitely some coffee and the scent of liquor was even stronger up close.

The eyes of the entire group were on him, each looking intently at the piece wobbling on his fork. Opening his mouth, he slipped the fork inside, clamping his teeth down.

"And?" Roma asked, trembling with anticipation.

Arthur pulled the utensil out of his mouth, the tiniest of smiles on his face. "It's good." He said quietly, taking another forkful. The table visibly relaxed and Arthur was allowed to finish his dessert nearly unbothered. Nearly, save for the moment when Francis' reached over, dipping his finger into the tiramisù. Before Arthur could protest, Francis had already slipped his forefinger between his lips, keeping his eyes trained on the Englishman's. His felt his jaw slowly unhinge as Francis' tongue flicked out, liking the last speck off his nail.

Even after the walk home, Arthur was sure his cheeks were still burning. Back at the hostel, Antonio, Lovino and Ludwig bid them goodnight while Feliciano plopped down beside the desk, explaining it was his turn to stay up. "Could I borrow your phone? I need to call my…" -_ex-boyfriend and beg him to take me back-_, "My brother." Feliciano nodded, passing him the phone from under the desk. Beside him, Francis sidled up to the counter, clearly hoping to listen in.

Arthur took the phone and stalked away from the two, turning his back to them and dialling the number. The phone rang, but Arthur knew his brother wasn't going to pick up. Cell service did not fare well in the northern Canadian Shield. "Hi, this is Matthew!" Arthur sighed, shaking his head, "I'm sorry I can't come to the phone, but if you leave your name and number I'll get back to you right away, eh?" Only Matthew could make a voicemail message sound so comforting.

"Matthew, I hope you get this message and haven't died frozen in an glacier. I'm stuck in Rome, it's a long story, and I really need some help at the moment." He lowered his voice, looking over is shoulder, making sure Francis and Feliciano were still chatting, "Alfred's broken our engagement… I think he's sleeping with someone else. I really need some help Matt, call me soon." He left the number of the hostel and ended the call, sighing heavily.

He walked back over to the desk and passed over the phone, muttering a thank you to Feliciano. The Italian quirked his head, warm eyes searching Arthur's. "You look terrible… You should get some sleep," He began to shepherd the pair away from the lobby towards the stairs, "_Buona notte_." He said, giving them both a small wave and returning to his post.

As they climbed, Francis stopped suddenly on the stairs, Arthur bumping into him. "Who's Alfred?" He said abruptly, folding his arms and watching Arthur sternly.

A look of shock passed over Arthur's features before being replaced by quiet rage. He tried to push by, but Francis' filled the narrow staircase, blocking him. "None of your goddamn business." He said, not quite meeting the Frenchman's eye.

Reaching out a hand, Francis grabbed Arthur's shoulder. "As your roommate and new acquaintance, it _is_ my business, _Sourcils._" He said, giving Arthur's shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"My ex-fiancé, okay?" Arthur smacked the hand away and shouldered past Francis, who let him pass. He moved passed their room and headed for the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him. Sighing, he gripped the edges of the sink, trying to steady himself. He knew that Alfred wasn't going to be easy to get over, but not this hard. Turning on the water, he splashed some on his face, the cool water helping to steady him. After shaking wet hair out of his eyes and sitting on the floor for a minute, allowing a brief bout of self-pity, he stepped out of the bathroom and went down the hall back to his room.

Opening the door, his eyes travelled over the modest accommodations, from the French doors leading to the balcony, to the naked man, to his own bed, which looked so inviting at the moment. And then his focused back on the naked man. "F-francis!?" He said, hang flying to his mouth and his cheeks flushing a bright red, "What the hell are you doing!?"

At least he was turned away from door. "I sleep in the nude," he explained, running a hand along his leg, in a much-too suggestive way, "Is there's a problem with that, _Sourcils_?"

Attempting to regain some semblance of sanity to the situation, Arthur immediately resorting to a furious disposition. It wasn't the best thing, - indeed, a tall Frenchman sitting on a bed, stark naked wasn't something you'd usually get angry about (_no wait, bad Arthur, you're recovering from a relationship, not good time to start something new_) - but he wasn't feeling very emotionally stable at the moment and anger seemed to be the only answer. "You will sleep with pants on or I will strangle you in your sleep." Violence. He severely hoped Francis wasn't going to interpret is as suppressed want. (_how did his legs look so good…_)

"Perhaps you will change your mind if you spend the night with me~" He said, smiling coyly and winking. (_okay, not... oh dear god, I hope I'm not drooling_) Francis slowly began to turn, but Arthur squeaked, turning his back and staring at the door. His fists clenched at his sides as he tried to centre himself. (_don't look Arthur. For the sake of the Queen and God himself don't even fucking look_)

"Let's get one thing straight." He said, casting a quick look over his shoulder, making sure Francis was still turned away, (_fucking Frenchman. Fuck them and their nice asses_) "I am not some whore you picked up off the street. I have a very high paying job and just happen to be in a bit of a bind at the moment. You just happened to appear at the right time. Believe you me; this would never happen if the circumstances weren't so sodding bizarre. Got it?" And, doing his best not to let his gaze wander, he made a straight path to his bed, slipped under the covers fully-dressed and made sure to keep his back turned to Francis. He closing his eyes, his pulled the sheets over his head and waiting until sleep came to him.

* * *

**Author's Note**

*_____* So many superb reviews! You guys are brilliant and wonderful and I love you all! Thank you very much :D And dude, was that bubble scene random or what?

andipromisemoreturtleneckloves


	4. Chapter 4

Might kick the rating on this up a notch. We'll see.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_Arthur moaned. Alfred's hands knew him too well, running over his chest and squeezing the pert skin as his tongue slide into his mouth. He allowed himself to be pushed against the wall, the warm hands now moving southwards, fumbling with his belt buckle. A knee squeezed between his legs, pushing lightly against his crotch as the fingers dipped past his waistline. But they were hesitating, something Alfred never did._

_New hands were touching him now. Long fingers that danced down his neck and warm lips gently kissed him. He breathed in heavily, the smell of lilies overpowering the familiar coffee. Rough and calloused skin gave way to a smooth touch. Butterfly-light stokes that left him wanting more. "Al-lfred…?" He breathed, opening his eyes and trying to identify the owner of the velvety hands._

_Navy eyes stared at him and the wavy blond hair was tangled. "Oh Arthur…" He said, gently kissing him while his hands began to rub below his belt, "Don't be silly… he's not here. It's just you and me."_

Arthur sat up, pulling the covers up to his chest, panting heavily. Drizzled sunlight crept into the room from the French doors as his breathing slowly returned to normal. After ferociously rubbing his face in his hands, trying to erase the dream from his mind, there was a rustling noise to his left. From behind long hair, all-too familiar blue eyes stared at him as a yawn played at lips that had been kissing him not five minutes ago. "_Bonjour_," Francis said, sliding the covers off his mercifully clothed legs, "Have a good sleep?"

Not trusting his voice, Arthur just shook his head. Shrugging, Francis got to his feet and tromped over to his bag, rummaging inside and pulling out clothes, holding them up and inspecting them. Arthur watched for a moment until, in a flash of realization, he remembered the contents of his own suitcase. He had wine. Scrumptious, expensive and dry wine.

Glad for the distraction, he leapt out of his bed and clambered over to his luggage, flicking it open. Shattered pieces of glasses littered his puce-stained clothes. In a stunned silence, he picked through his clothes, locating the bottom end of the wine bottle. He turned it over, watching the last few drops drip onto the floor.

"Fuuuuuuuccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkk…" Arthur moaned, slumping to his knees. "I hate my life…" he said casting the bottle aside. No wine last night. No wine today. This was turning into a terrible tour of the vineyards of France, not that this couldn't be attributed to the fact that the nearest French domaine was at least a hundred miles away.

Francis appeared at his shoulder, blue eyes travelling over the sad remains of Arthur's clothes. "I saw a laundromat down the road." He said, picking up the remains of the bottle and stepping carefully, disposing of the pieces in the wastepaper basket, "We can clean your clothes there."

"But what will I wear?" Arthur moaned, folding his arms and pouting, "I can't be seen in this shirt! It's disgusting!"

Something hit his head, falling to the floor in a crumpled heap. He looked around to see Francis' turtle neck lying on the ground. Cautiously, he picked it up, smelling it to make sure it wasn't dirty. It smelt like Francis but besides that it seemed perfectly wearable. "What are you going to wear?" He asked, getting to his feet and pulling off his shirt. The turtleneck was incredibly soft and he couldn't help but clutch his arms close to his chest, snuggling there for a moment.

"I brought other clothes." Francis said, gesturing towards his dufflebag, "and I was smart enough not to pack a bottle of wine so I'm fine." Once they were dressed, Arthur feeling slightly awkward in the turtleneck and Francis looking casual as always in a dark crimson dress shirt, they went downstairs, grabbed their coats, greeted a sleep-deprived Feliciano and stepped out into the street.

The laundromat was nothing more than three or four - the last could possibly be a portal to Vulcan - washing machines pushed against a wall, rattling loudly as the laundry tumbled around inside. A woman with long brown hair was the only other patron and gave Arthur and Francis a friendly smile as they entered. Arthur took note of the stain remover she had, knowing regular detergent wasn't going to do the trick. As Francis paid the crotchety old owner of the store, who was clearly not happy at having her _The Price Is Right_ interrupted, Arthur approached the young brunet. "_Scuzi_." He said, realizing a moment to late that his knowledge of the Italian language was close to non-existent.

Her bright green eyes look at him inquiringly as she continued to fold her pile of towels. "Sì?"

Arthur paused, racking his brain while trying to appear as though he was just preoccupied with his fingernail, "Uh…" He pointed at himself, "Can I use your," he gestured towards her, wondering why she was looking so amused instead of confused, "spray?" he mimed squeezing the bottle.

She laughed, making her face light up. "You'd like to use my spray?" She asked in almost-flawless English, "Or would you like me to play a game charades with you?"

His cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, I just wasn't sure if you spoke English or not."

She was still giggling quietly as she passed over the bottle. "It's alright. I had troubles when I first moved here."

"Oh yeah?" Arthur said, laying his shirts out on the table and absently applying liberal amount of spray, the stains suddenly the farthest thing from his mind.

She nodded, placing a folded apron on top of her teetering basket of towels. A traditional girl, and probably not a bad cook either. Arthur shuffled closer under the pretence of straightening the arm of his shirt. "My home country is very different from Italy," she sighed, slightly wistfully, "Not to say Rome has been bad, everyone here is very friendly." Their arms brushed and Arthur was sure he had a slightly dopey smile on his face. Her heart-shaped face was very pretty and she smelt of fresh baking that reminded him of his childhood. Just as he was about to ask for her name and perhaps if she'd want to get a coffee with him (Hey, if Alfred had already moved on…) An arm wrapped over his shoulder, cutting him off.

"And who is this _mignon chou-fleur_?" Francis asked, gripping Arthur closely in a much-too protective manner.

The young lady smiled at the tall Frenchman, while Arthur glared at him. "I'm Elizaveta." She said and lifted up her hamper, tucking it under her arm with some difficulty, "It was nice to meet you both. Maybe we'll see each other around." And with one more honeyed smile, she left, hurrying into the street, trying to keep her washings dry.

"What the hell were you doing?" The Brit demanded, shoving Francis' arm off his shoulder, "I was talking to her!"

Holding up his hands in his defense, Francis shook his head, his lip twitching. "_Désolé Sourcils,_ I did not realize that I cannot talk to you while you _attempt_ to flirt." He said, making Arthur's cheeks burn. He tightened his fist, intending to hit the other man when he realized that he was still holding the spraybottle. With a start, he ran out of the laundromat just in time to see Elizaveta's deep violet car turn the corner. Squinting he managed to make out the golden words tattooed on the window. "_Edelweiss Law Firm_" and the street address.

Clutching the spray, a tiny bubble of hope expanding in his chest, Arthur stepped back inside. Giving Francis a haughty look, he made his way to his shirts, placing them inside the machine and feeding it a few coins. Satisfied that the appliance wasn't going to send his wash to Narnia, Arthur looked around for a place to sit. As fate would have it, there was only one available seat and that was right beside Francis, who was resolutely pretending as though the Brit didn't exist, hiding behind a newspaper.

Wondering what exactly he had done that had condemned him to such a terrible week, Arthur plopped down beside Francis. His fingers played with the bottle as he stared blankly at his washing swirl round and round. The dull tumbling of the machine coupled with he drone of the TV and the periodical shuffling of paper was making him incredibly drowsy. Despite his continued anger at the man, he shifted closer to Francis, sinking lower in his seat. When their shoulders touched, Francis said nothing, only giving him a raised eyebrow before returning to his paper. Yawning, Arthur rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. It was stuffy, but pleasantly warm in the laundromat and the black turtleneck was so cosy…

By the time his head came to rest on Francis' arm, he was dead asleep.

_It was a quieter setting now, maybe a chalet or something, why else would he be sitting beside a roaring fireplace and drinking hot cocoa? Someone shifted beside him and he looked around to see Francis and he realized that he was practically sitting in the man's lap._

_"Something wrong? You aren't feeling sick again are you?" He asked, reached out and placing the back of his hand against Arthur's forehead. Shaking his head, the Brit tried to weasel his way off of Francis' when the hand gripped his chin, stopping him. "That's good…" Smiling, the Frenchman kissed him. Arthur carefully placed his mug down, wrapping his arms around Francis' neck, ignoring the part of his mind that was telling him to slap the bastard frog._

Arthur sat up as the kiss dragged away. The imaginary lips disappeared as he opened his eyes, staring around. He was lying on thee seats, a white coat spread over his chest. He saw the familiar form of Francis standing at the table, his arms moving as he folded clothes. Arthur could hear him humming absently under his breath. Getting to his feet, he stumbled over to Francis, nudging him as he yawned again. "How long have I been out?" He asked, smacking his lips.

Placing the last shirt delicately on the neat pile, Francis heaved them into his arms. "About two hours. You must've been tired, did you not sleep well last night?"

There was an odd gleam in the Frenchman's eye, as though he knew _exactly_ what Arthur had been dreaming about. His cheeks flushing, Arthur suddenly felt much more awake. "No. I had a fine sleep. I think I'm just a bit stressed is all." and, eager for a change of subject, he said, "You folded my shirts…. Thank you." Stretching out his hands, he took the top half of the pile, glad for the chance to cover his burning face.

"_De rien._" Francis said.

They left, making sure to be quiet so as not to wake the old woman who had fallen asleep in front of the television. It was raining, so they didn't dally in the street, glad for the refuge of the hostel. The older Vargas brother was manning the desk, playing a game of solitaire while Antonio was at his shoulder, happily adding in suggestions much to growing annoying of Lovino. They muttered hellos, not keen on dealing with a clearly irate Italian and slipped up the stairs into their room. Arthur dumped his clean shirts onto the dresser, glad that hen now had something presentable to wear. He turned to Francis, who was sitting on his bed, giving an Arthur a "so what now?" look.

"I need to get my papers in order," Arthur said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the small bureau "Then we can figure what we're going to do in the meantime." Okay, so it was a blatant scheme to see Elizaveta again, indeed he only remembered that he needed to get home after seeing her car window. But Francis didn't need to know that.

The Frenchman leaned back on his bed, tucking his arms behind his head. "The nearest law form is in the city's centre and I have no money in my budget for a taxi there and back."

Green eyes narrowed. Figured the Frenchman would be unhelpful at such a pivotal time. "Doesn't matter," He said, "I saw an advertisement for a one nearby, it's called-"

"_Edelweiss_, if I'm not mistaken." Francis said, grinning knowingly at him, "You want to return the spray bottle, do you not?"

Obviously too blatant.

They both looked at the stain remover balanced on the pile of clean shirts. "S-so what if I do," Arthur said bitingly.

The tall blond only laughed, sitting up, "As long as you admit you had other reasons to go, _Sourcils_." He left the room, Arthur following after him, making sure to snatch up the bottle.

Once back in the lobby, they found Antonio sitting in the armchair, nursing a growing lump on his head while Lovino was still at the desk, slamming the cards down as though each had caused him great personal offence. Arthur was surprised the desk hadn't shattered. They had reached the door before a voice called them back.

"Take an umbrella, it's really starting to pour," Antonio said, getting to his feet. He approached the desk, making sure to keep a good arms length away, "Can I have an umbrella, Lovi?" The Spaniard asked, giving him a toothy grin.

Muttering obscenities under his breath, the Italian rummaged for a moment, pulling out a green umbrella and tossing it to Arthur, who barely caught it before it hit his face. "This isn't near big enough for two!" Arthur said, looking at the small rod.

"Don't be a fucking girl about it, you'll both fit" Lovino barked, effectively ending the conversation.

Francis and Arthur stepped out of the lobby, the door closing behind them just in time to muffle Lovino's cries of rage as Antonio pulled him into a noogie for no apparent sane reason. "I hope he knows what he's doing," Arthur said, looking back in through the small window, "Lovino really doesn't like him." He opened the umbrella as Francis gave a snort of disbelief, "What?"

"You really think Lovino hates Antonio?" Francis said. Arthur nodded, huddling close to the handle of the umbrella, "Ah, well, _je dit rien._" He stepped beside Arthur, gripping the umbrella right above Arthur's hand.

Lovino had been right. If they leaned close, they were both spared from the downpour. Arthur didn't mind the cold, with Francis beside him, there was enough heat for him to still think clearly and not fear losing his fingers. Not know exactly where they were going, they spent several minutes wandering the street, Arthur leading Francis as they squinted through the deluge, trying to read the numbers on buildings. Finally he spotted the plum automobile and they trod down the road, the house - a giant of a home - bright against the dark buildings. Arthur closed the umbrella, shaking it lightly, glad for the safety of a small overhang. The mansion seemed entirely out of place in the rundown street, the paint a spotless white and elegantly craved Grecian pillars that held up a small deck decorated the outside.

A pit of worry had formed in Arthur's chest, squeezing the bubble of hope tightly. Elizaveta may have looked as though she belonged in this Victorian-esque home, but he wasn't completely sold on her being able to afford it all on her own. Hoping desperately that she was living with her parents, he reached forward, intending to press the doorbell. Thin fingers seized his wrist, "Look." Francis whispered before Arthur could speak. He pointed at a small sign, in the door's window.

_Please do not ring doorbell. If here regarding legal business, let yourself in. _

**SILENTLY.**

Arthur lowered his hand, but Francis didn't let go, tugging at the too-long sleeve. "You didn't change," He remarked, letting his fingers trace along Arthur's wrist, "Don't think of stealing it _Sourcils_, it was a gift from my uncle in Turkey." He added with a small wink.

Drawing his hand into the sleeves of the coat Arthur said nothing, letting the Frenchman open the door. It was warm inside the entrance way and they shirked off their coats and shoes, placing them neatly in a corner. They didn't speak as soft music was emanating from a door to their right.

They peaked around the corner into the room. It was large with a bay window that overlooked the sea. The creamy walls were coloured with dark oak bookshelves laden with heavy tomes. In a corner was a beige couch that had crimson pillows and a chenille throw, which provided the otherwise mute room with accents of colour. In the very centre was a glossy black piano, who's player had his back to the doorway, his arms moving up and down the pale keys.

Waves of low notes accompanied the delicate melody. Arthur swallowed, his throat constricting as he remembered the concert he dragged Alfred to. He had complained the entire time, saying that if no one was singing, he didn't want to listen. Arthur pointed out, in a very harsh whisper as their argument was attracting many glares - that "Duelling Banjos" was one of his favourite pieces of music and there was no singing in that. The American had found his revenge by dragging the Brit into the bathroom and leaving angry red marks along his neck that would be impossible to hide. Arthur was lucky that a custodian had walked in on them or else Alfred probably would've shagged him right then and there in the washroom.

He chuckled sadly, shaking his head. Here is he was listening to symphony-grade music and all he could think about how much Alfred hated it.

"I'd appreciate silence while I'm playing." A sharp voice snapped. The pianist had turned round, dark eyes glinting as he lowered the cover of the piano.. His chocolate hair was smoothed back, professional and smart looking save for the single piece standing on end.

Suppressing the urge to jump forward and smooth the piece back (Couldn't he go two seconds without being reminded of Alfred?) Arthur stepped into the room, bowing his head. "I am sorry. I wanted to return this," He held up the bottle of stain remover, "I believe it belongs to your sister."

The man stood, pushing his glasses up his slightly pointed nose, "I don't have a sister." Arthur's heart fell, coming to rest somewhere near his stomach, "You must mean Elizaveta." As her name left his lips, she appeared, a frying pan held in her hand. "You know these two?" He asked, waving at Arthur and Francis.

She nodded. "I met them at the laundromat." Arthur thought he detected a slightly apologetic tone to her voice and the bubble of hope suddenly swelled. This man must be her abusive step-father or maybe just a a man who hired her as a maid, but now wouldn't let her leave because she owes him money that was used to pay for her sick mother's heart transplant. Arthur was a successful business man, he could help pay off her debts, offer her a place in his home and eventually woe her into marriage with candlelit dinners and long walks through the beautiful streets of London. As this scenarios ran through his head, they all shattered as Elizaveta crept towards the pianist and placed a kiss on his cheek, "I'll be sure to show them out dear."

Mind freezing, Arthur dropped the bottle. Francis quickly picked it up. "We actually came here on other business as well," He said, keeping an eye on his Arthur, making sure he wasn't going to collapse. "My friend requires new papers so that me way return to _Angleterre._ Isn't that right?"

An elbow dug into Arthur's ribs, more painful than the growing ache in his chest. "What? Oh, yes, it's a very long story."

The lawyer gave the two men a searching stare before sighing in resignation. "We better sit down then," He held out an elegant hand, "Roderich Edelstein."

Francis took the hand, casually sneaking Elizaveta the spray with a sly wink. "I am Francis Bonnefoy."

Dark eyebrows contracted. "Bonnefoy? You don't mean-"

"The very same," Francis said with a dazzling smile, "Lead singer of the pop sensation _La_ _Mauvais Touch_." He laughed, releasing Roderich's hand.

Apparently Francis' star studded past did not impress the man in the slightest. With a quiet sniff, Roderichturned to Arthur, taking his hand. "And you?"

"Arthur Kirkland," He said, only keeping the pianist's gaze for a moment before unconsciously looking at the young woman again.

Roderich led them up a staircase, Elizaveta trailing behind them, frying pan and spray still clutched in her hands. Arthur couldn't help but pay more attention to her than the huge house, while Francis couldn't seem to get enough of it, commenting and constantly asking questions as they made their way along a second-floor hallway. At the end, a door opened up to an office that, while almost the same size as the music room, was entirely different.

Instead of simple, open and light, it was busy, cluttered and dark. Arthur had a sneaking suspicion that Elizaveta had a little more to do with the interior decorating than her husband/lover/whatever the hell he was.

Sitting down at his desk, Roderich shuffled papers and folders, clearing a space while Arthur and Francis sat down across from him. "Drink?" He asked, opening drawers and shoving papers into them in a haphazard fashion. Both nodded, "Tea alright?" This suggestion received even more enthusiastic nodding from the Englishman and a frown from the Frenchman. Thin lips twitched at the hint of a smile. "Two teas then and coffee for Mr. Bonnefoy please." He said and Elizaveta left the room.

"So," Roderich prompted, leaning forward and folding his arms on his desk, "What exactly is this interruption of my practice about?"

Francis and Arthur exchanged a look. "I guess it all started when I dropped my wallet in the Seine and stopped traffic as I yelled profanities until Francis picked me up." As Arthur recounted the story - making sure to skip some of the more _sensitive_ moments he had encountered on his trip with Francis- Roderich listened intensely, occasionally taking his fingers and rubbing his temple in a drained manner, as though he had heard the story of a Frenchman and Englishman teaming up every day.

Just as Arthur breezed over the misunderstanding over the one bed, indeed he was really only using it so that Roderich wouldn't draw any wrong conclusions, Elizaveta walked in, balancing a tray in her hands.

Thanking her, Arthur picked up his tea, inhaling the earthly smell. "I mean," he said, sipping at the tea to testing the temperature, "You couldn't expect us to sleep together." There was a squeak and the three men looked around to see Elizaveta smiling at them. It wasn't her usual friendly, warm smile, but something much more predatory and there was a sharp gleam in her eye. As soon as she realized that they were all staring at her, she froze, cheeks turning a bright pink. She fled the room, taking Arthur's short-crush with her. Pretty or not creepy girls were too much.

"So," Roderich said, clearing his throat and tugging at the collar of his shirt, "You lost your papers and need new ones so you can return to England?"

"Can you do that?" Arthur said, drinking his tea.

Leaning back in his chair, the pianist's eyes looked out the window, staring at the grey sky. "I think I can. Let me call your embassy," He picked up the receiver of an old-style phone, dialling the number, "British Embassy please. Yes. No, a client of mine lost his passport and his stranded in Rome. Yes… no it's true, dropped in it the water. Right... how long? Really? Do you have to go the Amazon and cut the trees for the paper yourself?"

Feeling it would be better to delay the imminent disappointment, Arthur got to his feet and with his tea in hand; he began to peruse the cluttered office. One wooden cabinet had pictures on top and he bent over, examining them. The first was a photo of Roderich and Elizaveta standing in front o the mansion, holding up a 'sold' sign. In a bright red frame was a baby and, judging from the mole and unimpressed look, it was Roderich.

It was the last picture that caught Arthur's attention. Three young men were in dark robes with mortarboards tilted at angles on their heads. The man in the middle had white-blond hair and his arms were slung over the other two. The one of the left was clearly Roderich, whose expression was no different from the photo of his as a baby. Arthur picked up the picture, staring intently at the last member with a growing sense of glee. While the face was less stern and not as well defined, the blue eyes were unmistakable. But that wasn't the thing that was making giggles bubble up from Arthur. Trying to muffle his mirth, he waved a hand at Francis, motioning him to come over.

"What?" Francis hissed. Arthur shoved the picture into his hands, his fingers clamped over his mouth and cheeks bulging with suppressed giggles.

Looking down, the blue eyes widened as he saw the man on the right. "Is that… Ludwig?"

"Yes!" Arthur gasped, voice pitched unnaturally high.

The German's blond hair was not it's usual severe style, but shoulder length and rather curly and luscious. Realization dawned on Francis's face and a wicked smile spread across his lips as he joined the Brit in laughter.

Ludwig had a perm. Here was documented proof that the most serious man Arthur had ever met, and they had barely spoken to each other, had golden locks of hair when he was young. This proved that there was at least some justice in the world. Placing the picture back, Francis and Arthur collapsed into a silent fit of sniggering, both trying to stay quiet as Roderich continued to argue on the phone. Only once he had hung up did the two allow their mirth to boil over, falling over each other they wheezed for breath.

"What's so funny?" Roderich asked, folding his arms, anything but amused.

Sinking even further into their laughter, it took Francis and Arthur a full two-minutes before they could speak without bursting into giggles again. "Ludwig," Arthur panted, clutching the back of his chair for support, "I mean… his hair!" He let out a sharp bark of laughter.

Francis had sat down, taking a large swig of coffee while wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. "We are sorry Roderich," He said, his smile utterly unapologetic, "But it was just to funny to be ignored."

"I'm not hopeful Arthur." Roderich said coldly, "The embassy is not impressed with your story." Arthur shook his head, his joy at finding the picture efficiently squashed by the reality that he may be stuck in Rome for a very long time. At least he had a lovely French consort to make sure he didn't get too lonely. Wait…_lovely French consort_?

Arthur sighed. He really needed to get out of this city.

* * *

**Author's Note**

"De rien." - _It's nothing. A French equivalent to "you're welcome"_

"Je dit rien." - _I say nothing._

Dream sequences; for shitty endings to stories and good excuses to write pseudo-porn.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Being the incredibly well balanced, cool-headed and logical man that he was, Arthur decided that there was only one course of action he could take in light of finding out that he was going to be stuck in Rome for a very long time. And what exactly did this practical and commonsensical plan entail?

Drinking.

Sneaking out of the hostel while Francis was in the washroom -and changing out of the turtleneck, slightly reluctantly- he ran along the road, the few streetlights illuminating the dark road. Lovino had given him instructions to the only bar in the vicinity, "Five Meters" and, judging from the story-tall sign that was something out of Sin City announcing the name of the bar in large obtrusive letters, he had probably found the right location.

He was almost surprised that there were no strippers up on the tables. Inside was an incredibly refined room, nothing like the cheap theme he had imagined in his head upon seeing the sign. A large oak bar was at the opposite end; tall shelves behind it sporting an impressive collection of oddly shaped bottles and exotic looking liquors. The rest of the lounge was dressed as if from an old 1920's speakeasy, casual with a simplistic elegance, giving the feel that men should be there with beautiful women, discussing world matters over Cuban cigars and rich brandies. With such a regal atmosphere, Arthur couldn't figure out why no one was here.

His answer came faster than he would've liked upon reflection of the night's events.

"Hey! You! Bush-Brow! What do you want to drink!?" A voice shouted at him, a German accent lightly brushed mixed into the words. A man had appeared from behind the bar, skin and hair both unbelievably pale but his red eyes were even more disquieting. Not quite albino, but Arthur was almost positive this man had probably never seen the sun or else he really just failed at tanning.

Arthur approached the bar, peering at the random German text on the man's black undershirt, half hidden by his open red dress shirt. "Uh, have any wine?" He asked, sliding onto a stood.

The bartender laughed, placing his hands on his hips, "Wine is for girls! This is a man's bar! For hunks like me," His laughter died as he saw the severely unimpressed expression on his customer's face, "Not from around here are you?" He said, pulling a cloth off his shoulder and beginning to polish the already burnished bar.

"How did you guess?" Arthur said, making sure to draw out his brogue.

A cheeky grin which did _not_ remind him of Alfred in the slightest. "I'm just that awesome." Not reminded, not reminded, _not_ reminded. "So, what do ya wanna drink?"

Arthur eyed the impressive collection of liquors behind the man, trying to decide what he wanted to wet his palette with. "And you're sure you've got no wine?" The barman nodded, now idly spinning the cloth around his finger, "Fine, just… just…" He was about to say scotch but the bartender slammed his hand on the bar.

"I know exactly what you need! My specialty!" He spun on his heel, the cloth flipping back over his shoulder as he began to pull bottles off the shelves, mixing them all into a glass with a lot of over-exaggerated and flamboyant actions. Sitting back a bit, Arthur could only watch in a contemplative silence, wondering that if he had a break for the door, if the bartender would chase after him or throw a bottle at him and try to knock him out. Before he could make the run, a glass slammed onto the bar. Inside a bright red liquid shone up at him.

Arthur reached forward and gripped the glass, rolling the liquid around the glass, watching it stick slide down sluggishly. "What is it?"

The man dipped in finger into the drink and shoved it into his mouth. He sighed happily. "Delicious." He wiped his hand on the cloth, "I named it after myself. I call it _Gilbo's Cojones_."

"Charming." Arthur sniffed the drink, recoiling and coughing violently. "What's in there!? Glue!? Jesus Christ!" But the man wasn't paying attention, rather mixing another concoction. The Brit nudged his glass away, "Your name is 'Gilbo'?"

"Hardly," He turned back to face Arthur, giving him an incredulous look, "Gilbert. Only the ladies can call me 'Gilbo'. " The German said, lifting his glass, waiting for Arthur to do the same.

Wondering if this was going to be the death of him, Arthur carefully picked up his drink and, with one quick prayer, threw it back. It had the consistency of milk but tasted like peaches, hamburger, carpet, cinnamon and somehow, a touch of his own cooking. He retched slightly, barely able to keep the drink down, slamming the glass back onto the bar. _Hamburger! Endless reminders! Even in his drinks!_ "Don't you have any taste?" He coughed out, wiping his watering his eyes on the back of his hand, "That's terrible!"

Gilbert only shrugged, licking his lips free of the crimson drink. "A drink's a drink. Might be too _strong_ for a Brit like you." He quirked an eyebrow, watching Arthur carefully, daring him. The green eyes glared back, determined not to be stared down by some narcissistic German bartender. There was a tense silence in which Arthur's eyebrows furrowed with quiet rage and Gilbert's hand found his hip, gently rocking back and forth. Red eyes blinked.

"Get me another." Arthur said with a wicked smile.

It probably wasn't the wisest decision having another drink, but when his drinking was challenged, the English in him simply had to come out. Arthur hadn't eaten since early that morning and coupled with his rather low alcohol tolerance at inconvenient times that seemed to match his mood fluctuations it meant that he wasn't exactly ready for a drinking match. After two more of "_Gilbo's Cojones_" he was teetering on his stool, clutching the bar to make sure he didn't fall over.

"And then…" He said, throwing an arm up in the air, "He dumpsh me! Sheriously!"

Gilbert shook his head, shaking from laughter. "You're totally wasted." He said, taking Arthur's empty glass before the man's flailing knocked it over, "You should probably call it a night buddy."

Bloodshot eyes glared at the bartender as Arthur sagged forward onto the bar, his breath fogging the varnished wood. "N-no. Imfine!" Again, Gilbert laughed, bending over and placing the glasses into a small tub. Something glittered at his neck and, not really thinking, Arthur's hand lashed out, grasping it. "Whatsh thish?" He said, eyes going wide while Gilbert attempted to wrestle the necklace out of the tight grip and at the same time making sure Arthur didn't choke him.

"Just an Iron Cross," the bartender said, easing it out of Arthur's hand. He stepped back, holding up the necklace to the light, admiring it himself. The two men stared at it, entranced. The German was the first to recover, sliding the cross back under his shirt, "I was in the army with my brother for a bit. Did something that was incredibly awesome at the time but ended up being stupid and I ended up almost killing myself and a few other guys. My brother and I -mostly me though- managed to save the soldiers and ourselves. The higher-ups thought it was brave so I got a Cross."

The Briton wasn't listening, rather attempting to blow a bubble using his lips. It expanded from his lips and popped as soon as he started to giggle feebly, eyes-half lidded. Slightly ticked off at being ignored, Gilbert slammed his hand down on the bar, making his patron jump, almost flailing off his stool. "Hey! Listen! I'm a _war hero_ you're lucky to be even talking to be! I almost died! What have you done like that? Nothing. I'm the hunk here! I'm the one with the Iron Cross! I'm the one who can hold his drink!"

Arthur's attention perked at the mention of the cross. "Well I burnt myshelf on an _iron_ once. I almosht had to the hoshpital, look, I shtill have the s-shcar." It was at this point, Arthur would usually realize that pulling one's pants completely off to show a scar that could easily been seen just by lowering the waistband a bit was not a good idea. Arguably, in his inebriated state, realization wasn't exactly his forte.

His fingers fumbled with the belt, giving Gilbert enough time to realize exactly what was going on. "H-hey!" He said, putting his glass down and starting to sidle around the bar, "What do you think you're doing!?"

"I'm gonnashow you my shcar!" Arthur had taken off his belt and had slide down his pants so they hung around his knees while his fingers were tugging at his boxers, "It'sh right here-"

Gilbert rushed around the bar, seizing Arthur in a bear hug. "Not in my bar," He growled, keeping Arthur's arms pinned to his sides. "Now, you're going to pull those pants back up. I'm not some queer and I don't need to see your... your _vital_ regions." His colourless cheeks were tinted a light pink.

The Englishman fought against the hold, fingers still scrambling at his underwear. "No! You musht shee! My honour dependsh on it!" He fought harder and Gilbert held him fast, fists tightening directly under Arthur's sternum.

The Brit stepped on the German's foot. "_Scheiße_!" Gilbert cried out, loosening his grip slightly.

"Lemmie go!" Arthur shouted. With a particularly strong jerk, he managed to throw himself off balance, so that he and Gilbert toppled to the ground just as the door to the bar opened.

* * *

Francis returned to his room, surprised to find Arthur not there. Poking his head out of the French Doors to make sure the man hadn't escaped using bedsheets tied to the balcony railing, he hurried down the stairs. He made sure to grab his jacket, knowing his gut feeling that Arthur was not inside playing a game of cards with Lovino was probably right.

Lovino and Feliciano were both in the lobby, bent over a light grey and blue gameboard. In the armchair, Ludwig was sitting, blue eyes trailing lazily over the words in his book, occasionally flickering to the two Italians when the elder's voice rose. "You can't buy Broadway!" Lovino said, his fist clenched and trembling slightly.

The younger brother frowned, tilting his head. "Why not Lovi?"

"Because I'm going to buy it!"

Francis walked over to the pair. "Have you seen Arthur?" He asked, casually reaching down and plucking the little silver dog from the board and examining it.

Snatching the dog out of the Frenchman's fingers, Lovino placed it back on the board. "I haven't seen him." He said, and adding with an intense, very pointed glare, "Have you Ludwig?" The German shook his head. "So there. We haven't seen him."

A blond eyebrow quirked. "Feliciano, buy Broadway. You have enough money, _mon cher_." Francis said, picking up a few bills from the Italian's substantial pile and placing them in the white plastic bank. Picking a red house out of the box top, he positioned it on the board. "There, all done~" He smiled at Lovino.

Not saying a word, Lovino picked up the dice and rolled them. He moved the little dog three places and landing right on the square currently being occupied by the tophat. "Look Lovi!" Feliciano said, smiling from ear-to-ear, "We're on the same place now! That means we share right?"

"Oh no Feliciano," Francis said before his brother could speak, "It means that Lovino has to pay you. In fact," The blue eyes roamed over Lovino's very small pile of colourful bills, "I think he owes you all his money."Francis grinned at Lovino, who glared at Feliciano, who was staring blankly between the two while Ludwig had closed his book, now watching the three carefully.

In a sudden, violent move, Lovino upended the board, shouting, "Fuck this game!"

As the pieces fell to the ground and paper fluttered around, Francis brushed a hotel out of his hair. "Where is Arthur?" He asked calmly.

"At the bar! The bar, you bastard!" Lovino cried, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. He sniffled, Feliciano attempted to placate him with a comforting hug, but was shoved away as his brother fled the room, running up the stairs, now crying loudly. A door slammed followed by very worried whispers of Spanish.

Clapping Feliciano on the back and winking at Ludwig, who had a blue fifty sitting on his head, Francis slipped out of the lobby into the rainy night. He flipped up the collar of his coat, realizing that he had no idea where this bar was. Knowing that it was probably not best to go back into the hostel at the moment, he set out along the road. It only took him a few minutes to get completely soaked and a few more to actually find the bar, shivering, he reached back with his hands, wringing water out of his ponytail. Shaking himself like a dog, he opened the door to the bar.

"Lemmie go!" Someone shouted. In the middle of the bar, a pale, white-haired man had pantless Arthur pinned to the ground. He could only watch in horror as Arthur squirmed beneath the man, obviously trying to fight him off. Adrenaline suddenly pumping through his veins, Francis rushed forward, tackling the man off of Arthur.

"_Was!?_" The man shouted, staring up at the Frenchman with vivid red eyes. Francis attempted to pin his arms, but boots found his chest, kicking him off. His head contacted the bar and the world flickered. Moaning, Francis clutched his head as a shadow passed over him. "What the hell is going on!? Who are you?!" An arm automatically raised to protect himself. When there was no impact from a kick or a punch, he lowered his arm. The man stared down at him, huffing slightly, hands gripping his hips.

"Who am I!? _Mon Dieu!_ What were you doing on top of _Sourcils_!?" Francis demanded, trying to get to his feet. He glanced over at the aforementioned man, who now appeared to be passed out, dozing quietly in the middle of the bar, his pants still around his ankles. At least he was still breathing.

The two men stared at each other, Francis still looking utterly appalled while the German simply looked confused. Sighing, Gilbert ran a hand through his hair. "This guy started taking off his pants in the middle of my bar and I was just trying to stop him." He slid back behind his bar, folding his arms and leaning against the counter, "I don't swing that way. A hunk like me could do so much better than him." Francis gave the bartender a weak smile, letting out his held breath.

Walking over to the unconscious man, Francis gently pulled him to his feet, slinging Arthur's arm around his shoulder, gripping his waist and hauling him out of the bar. The rained seemed to wake him up slightly so that Arthur groaned, his eyes blinking up slowly at Francis, a dopey smile plastered on his face. "Oy… Francis…What're you doin' here…"

"I'm taking you back to the hostel," He hoisted the Brit higher, wondering how someone so small could possibly be so heavy, "You got drunk."

There was silence save for the gentle patter of rain and the slap of shoes of wet pavement. The hostel's puke-coloured wall had never seemed more inviting than when Francis had dragged the drunk Arthur inside, closing the door behind him with his foot. Feliciano jumped to his feet as the two men stumbled inside."_Che macello_!" He cried, scurrying over to Arthur's other side and slinging the loose arm over his shoulders. The Italian trembled under the weight and Francis soon found all the Englishman's heaviness back on his own back, but he appreciated Feliciano's gesture. "_Mi dispiace_... Let me run a bath..."

Francis followed the owner up the stairs, now panting from the effort it was taking to keep his companion upright, who seemed barely cohesive, staring blankly ahead, a muzzy grin still at his lips. Once in the bathroom, Francis deposited Arthur onto the toilet, and straightened, placing the hands on his back, cracking his spine. Feliciano was bent over the taps, playing with them as steaming water filled the old-looking tub. Once it was almost filled to the brim, he turned off the faucets and left, coming back a minute later with a stack of mismatched towels held in his arms.

"Okay Arthur," Francis said, taking one of the towels and stepping out of the bathroom, "Just get into the bath. Call if you need anything." The drunk man nodded lethargically and began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. Closing the bathroom door, Francis went to his own room, pulling off his wet clothes, toweling his body off. Once he had a dry shirt and pants on, he draped the towel over his still-soaking hair, and trundled back up the stairs, knocking on the door and calling out, "Arthur? Are you alright in there?"

There was a moan, followed by a thump as something heavy hit the wall. Francis didn't hesitate to open the door. Arthur was sagged against the side of the bathtub, wearing nothing but boxers and his dress-shirt. His coat and pants lay against the wall, slumped and drenching the tile. Wondering for a moment if it was possible to just leave Arthur there and come back in the morning and face him then, Francis moved into the small room, shutting the door. He knelt beside Arthur, gently tapping the flushed cheek until the green eyes open and blinked at him.

"I couldn't..." He said, pointing at the buttons, "Too hard..."

Francis reached forward and started undoing Arthur's shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders and tossing it beside the discarded pants. Glancing the boxers, the Frenchman decided that it would be better to leave them on. After a minute of awkward pushing and shoving, he finally managed to deposit the Brit in the tub. Arthur slide down the side, his mouth sitting in the water, bubbling in time with his exhales. Francis flopped down beside the tub, beginning to rub the towel through his hair.

A warm hand closed around his wrist and he looked around to see Arthur gazing at him, eyebrows knotted, "Lemmie do it..." he said, batting the towel. "I wanna..."

Francis began to shake his head but hands had already seized his head, beginning to move back and forth. Surprised at the gentle motions, the Frenchman let his hands fall into his lap, closing his eyes as the fingers began to massage his hair. Arthur hummed absently under his breath, words still slurred and occasionally his fingers would get tangled in the blond hair and he would have to wait for a wincing-Francis to disentangle his hair from the fingers.

"Careful." Francis warned, breathing in the warm air of the bathroom. It was so odd, Arthur was so violent and yet under the influence of alcohol and a warm bath, he was quiet and -though it almost pained Francis to admit it- kind of cute, but that wasn't his place to say as much. Arthur was clearly still recovering from a relationship and while he didn't know all the details, the short time he had spent with the Brit allowed him to figure out that Alfred had obviously been someone important. Knowing that even if he did try and make a move on Arthur - not that he hadn't been flirting with him the entirety of the trip and would most likely continue - it would be shot down and most likely end with severe pain. Sighing, he leaned his head back, trying to clear his mind.

Fifteen minutes passed before Arthur passed out, snoring loudly in the tub, leaving Francis to drag him out of the water, dry him off, get him in clothes (he'd just have to deal with wet boxers) and into bed. Wondering why in the world he had to pick such a handful to bring on the trip, the Frenchman slid into his own bed, falling asleep immediately.

* * *

**Author's Note**

_Scheiße! -_ shit!

_was?! _- what?!

_Che macello!_ - What a mess!

_Mi dispiace..._ - I'm sorry...

-

This is the only chapter I didn't have massive outline for. The chapter plot was: "Arthur goes to Prussia's bar. Asks for wine, gets none, gets drunk anyway." When usually the outline will be about a page and a bit including dialogue and subtle directions. SO MY WEEK SORTA WENT LIKE THIS.

23rd - updates chapter 4

24th - messes around responding to reviews (wonders why she has barely any comments on lj. Angsts in Arthur-ish fashion by drowning herself in tea)

25th - says, "Fuck it" and posts chapter on FrUK comm. (continues to wallow in angst and plays Team Fortress2

26th - RESPONDS TO MASS OVERLOAD OF COMMENTS ON LIVEJOURNAL. FEELS SO AWESOME, and colours instead of writing. (Drinks timmy hos coffee, tea is for brits.)

27th - basks in the glory of her own awesome (you guys are terrible for my ego)

28th - spends day shopping. Gets home, realizes she had 3000 words to write. Writes until wee hours of morning, almost passes out on keyboard. (drinks non-caffeinated tea)

29th - spends day with dras and firephantom (watches Full-Metal Alchemist and Anastasia while eating delicious bagels and muffins), gets home and writes/edits like a madman. Berates self for not doing a buffer. Drinks tea and eats nachos for dinner.

30th - posts chapter and then realizes she has school the next day. Freaks out and runs around house like an idiot until falling asleep.

/pointlessness

ALSO, comments about how Prussia's character was would be mightily appreciated! He's tough for me and since he shows up in the next two requests I'm doing (everyone lubs Prussia~), any advice or critique would be wonderful.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_Night was falling on the city of Paris but the red flags of the Reich were still striking against the smoke-filled sky. Above the gunshots, yells of men and explosions there was a large and imperious resonance of marching music. The pounding beat rang through the air, ominous amid the invasion._

_Arthur dived, chest hitting the ground and knocking the air out of his lungs as he dodged a volley of bullets. Behind him, he heard his men fall. Not daring to look back, he continued to worm his way forward, his vision filled with the muddy brown of the battlefield._

_Something glinting near his head and he looked up to see two German soldiers glaring down at him, both dressed in the tenebrous uniforms of the SS, the taller of the two had a pistol trained on his head. Their names left his mouth before he could register what was going on, "Ludwig? Gilbert?" _

_The latter slung an arm around his compatriot's shoulder, crimson eyes flashing. "Hear that West? Mr. UK wants to talk to us now. Easy for negotiations when you have a gun pointing at your face, eh, England?"_

"_What are you talking about?" Arthur stayed down, thinking it better to stay down, "The United Kingdom? England? I'm Arthur! I was at your bar last night Gilbert! And Ludwig, what the hell is happening!?"_

_A black boot lashed out, smashing into Arthur's face, making him cry out in pain. "Prussia and Germany to you, filth." Gilbert spat, wiping his boot on Arthur's uniform._

_Nose throbbing painfully and warmth already sliding down his face, Arthur turned tortured eyes to Ludwig, searching for any hint of mercy. The blue gaze was cool and the dark glove tightened its grip on the gun. "Lu-Germany," The Brit said, "W-what? You… You can't be here… I shouldn't be here. This is World War II. We should be… we should be past this! I never fought in the war, this is all wrong!"_

_A frown creased the German's brow. "You think we should be past this? You never fought this war?" Ludwig questioned, "What year is it?"_

"_Two-thousand and something?" Arthur replied._

_At this, Prussia let out a bark-like laugh. "Two-thousand? It's 1940 you idiot, the year we took down the idiot Frenchman. Shoot him West, he's gone insane."_

Arthur awoke with a start, surprised to find himself on the floor, limbs tangled within the red sheets. Suddenly understanding why his dream at felt so real, he rolled onto his stomach, head now throbbing painfully from the impact and from the massive hangover. A moment passed in which he realized that marching music was still playing, but he was sure that he was no longer in France. Indeed the peeling, yellowed paint of the hotel wall was clearly different than the dark, dank battlefield. Gently, he reached up and prodded his nose, which was fortunately still in one piece, solidifying his belief that this was reality and not some messed up dream.

Untangling himself from the linen, while trying to keep his pounding head as still as possible, Arthur got to his feet. When he tried to stretch, he only managed to uncurl for a second before hunching over again, covering his face with his hands and groaning. That goddamned marching music was still playing, the constant beat of the drums and the low rumble of the brass driving directly into his brain.

He shuffled over to the door where the music was issuing as eased it open. The volume increased and he was hard-pressed not to slam the door shut, dive back into his bed, and wallow there until his hangover passed. Ludwig was sitting outside his door, a small, black set of speakers on his left, which were vibrating slightly from the intensity of the volume. He seemed to be taking nails and hammering them into the wall, as though on this day he had nothing better to do than make Arthur's head even worse.

"You seen Francis?" He asked, still holding a hand to his temple, resisting the urge to kick the music player down the stairs.

Ludwig reached over and flipped a knob on the boom box. Arthur almost moaned from delight at the silence. "No," The German searched him, taking in his dishevelled look and bloodshot eyes, "You spent last night at the bar." he said finally, a statement; not a question.

Figuring it would be better to tell the truth than lie, Arthur nodded. "Yeah. Bartender's an ass, though." He mentioned casually, thinking about the albino's somewhat uncouth approach to the fine world of drinking. "Kinda weird too…"

The mechanic got to his feet. "Gilbert isn't exactly the most tactful of people." Ludwig said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Arthur snorted, sending a pang of pain through his head. "That's an understatement. I have yet to meet a cheekier bastard." He frowned, "You know him well?"

"He's my brother."

"Oh." Arthur stared at Ludwig, realizing that he was a very, _very_ tall, very burly man. Not wanting to offend the man anymore, "I'm going to go now." He started to back into his room, until a gloved hand found around his shoulder, halting him.

"Don't worry." Ludwig said, "I understand."

Once Arthur managed to escape past the German fully clothed (barely making it due to that accursed music he had begun to replay) he left the hotel, flipping his collar up as the cold fog began to prick against his skin and dull the throb in his head. It wasn't raining hard but a low brume now hung around the street, making Arthur feel slightly homesick.

Making sure to give "Five Meters" a wide berth, Arthur finally arrived at _Tramonto_, opening the door and sighing happily at the warmth of the interior of the restaurant. Sitting near the window, a leg crossed over the other, a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside him as he perused a small green book, was Francis. He looked up at the sound of the door opening and a smile spread across his face. "Ah, _Sourcils_. How good to see you among the living."

"Urg…" Arthur grunted in response, sliding into the chair beside him and laying his head on the wood, closing his eyes.

And was promptly slapped on the back as Roma exploded into the room. "_Buongiorno!_" He crowed while the Englishman groaned loudly, clutching his head between his hands. "Oh, I'm sorry!" He said, still in that unlawfully bright voice, "I heard you got drunk last night! You must have a massive hangover!"

"Something like that…"

The laughter was perhaps even worse than the militia marching music. "Don't worry! I've got the perfect cure!" And with one last agonizing shout of laughter, Roma left.

"Don't say a word." Arthur ground out, fixing Francis with a single bloodshot eye. Francis merely chuckled, sipping at his coffee and returning to his book. Roma arrived a few minutes later and slid a plate onto the table followed by a mug. Giving Arthur hearty wink, Roma sauntered back to his kitchen while Arthur dragged himself off the table and stared at the food.

Two sunny-side up eggs with a piece of bacon under them, tilted up at the sides sat on the red plate. "My breakfast is smiling at me." He said, picking up his fork and poking one of the yokes with it. Yellow liquid oozed out of the film, running down the plate.

"And now you've gone and made it sad." Francis said, not looking up from his book.

Arthur jabbed his fork in the Frenchman's direction. "I said to keep your gob shut." And promptly speared one of the eggs, transferring it to his mouth. With a shudder, he reached down and quickly scooped up the other egg, and swallowed it quickly so that he barely tasted it. "I hate eggs…" He muttered, picking up the piece of bacon and shoving it in after, trying to rid himself off the slimy aftertaste. The savour still lingering, he reached over and threw back the mug's content, surprised to find milk inside. After chugging the entire drink, he slammed the cup back onto the table, making Francis look up from his book.

"Ah, Arthur…" Francis tapped his twitching upper lip with a long finger, "You've got a little something here…" Arthur's tongue flicked out, running along his mouth. He raised an eyebrow at a slightly pink Francis, "It's still there…" Sitting forward in his seat, Francis reached out with a napkin, wiping Arthur's face with it.

When he returned to his sitting position, both were blushing, pointedly avoiding each other gazes. "S-so," Arthur said, clearing his throat, staring at his empty mug, "What do you want to do today?"

"Roma's invited us down to the docks." Francis said.

At the mention of his name, the Roman appeared, a large brown coat around his broad shoulders. "It's Tuesday, so I go down to the docks and pick up my fish." He grinned slightly sheepishly, "I thought you might want to see more of the city."

Arthur got to his feet, stretching. His headache was fading rapidly and he suddenly felt very awake. "That would be great," He said, making Francis stare at him with a look of utter incredulity. As Roma left - he had to go ready the vehicle apparently - Arthur stopped at the door, turning back to Francis and saying a low voice, "But I doubt we'll see anything, it's so bloody foggy out there."

"And I was worried you lost your tongue." Francis sighed, following after the Brit.

In the street, grinning widely at them, was Roma. He was sitting atop a light blue Vespa with a small sidecar attached, holding out two helmets. "Let's get going!" After a few minutes of positioning everyone onto the rickety scooter, Arthur found himself in the sidecar while Francis was wrapped around Roma. "Everyone on? Okay! Let's go!" The motor revved into life and the scooter jumped forward.

Arthur yelped, clutching the sides of the small car tightly, keeping his eyes trained on his lap, waiting for the crash to come. Trying to distract his mind, he looked down at the book Francis had thrown into the sidecar, saying that he couldn't carry it while riding with the Roman. It was a book of poetry, but not in French, the Englishman realized with a start, but in German. Making a mental note to question Francis further about the book's origins, he spent the rest of the trip staring at the book's golden title, trying to keep his breakfast down.

The scooter stopped and Arthur raised his head. On his left, Francis uncurled himself from Roma, looking slightly ruffled. "Here we are!" The chef said, stepping off the bike and kicking the scooter's stand down, "The docks! Aren't they great?" The harbour were nothing more than a collection of small houses placed near docks that stretched out and disappeared into the wall of fog that hung heavy on the ocean. Arthur suspected that this was probably a million-dollar-view when there wasn't London weather here.

"You can wait here. I'll just be down at that house right there." Roma jumped over the low wall, climbing down the steep stairs that clung to the cliff that overlooked the docks. Arthur watched as five people appeared from the house, all Asian and all scrambling over each other to greet Roma. The eldest among them, as far as Arthur could tell from the way he whacked the loudest over the head, had long brown hair, dressed in a rich red.

"Wish we could see the sunset," Arthur muttered, tearing his eyes away from the gaggle of people near the dock and leaned against the wall, folding his arms on the stone. His eyes trailed up murky docks all the way out into the open ocean. He watched the outline of the sun shine feebly behind the heavy clouds.

Francis wasn't listening. He had his back to the docks and was currently grinning warmly at a couple of young Italian girls, flicking his blond hair over his shoulder. The Brit snorted, rubbing his face into his arms, sighing heavily. He didn't actually care about the sunset, he just wanted to get out of the fog. Wasn't Italy supposed to be warm and sunny and _not_ like his home where Alfred was currently residing with his new boyfriend? He sighed, forgetting Alfred was harder than he expected, or maybe he was just going to keep being reminded of Alfred until the end of his miserable, lonely life. Everything that would every remind him, food, water, even the sun was going to constantly prompt some memory involving the American. He knew one thing though, Francis was never going to-

"So it would be safe for me to assume that you only agreed to join me on my trip because you were emotionally unstable and clearly were looking for something to keep you from drowning in a pit of your own misery?" Was what Arthur heard, while in reality, Francis had merely said, "Can I ask you a personal question Arthur? About this, Alfred person?"

He could feel his entire body go rigid as he turned to face the Frenchman. "Al-alfred? Who's that? I've never even heard of that name," a nervous laugh bubbled up from his throat, feeling unpleasant in his mouth, "Seriously? I don't even know who you're talking about."

An elegant eyebrow quirked. "_Sourcils_, you are a terrible actor."

"I-I…" Arthur let his head fall forward in defeat, "Okay, you're right. I'm a terrible actor."

"Admitting your mistake won't get you out of the question." Francis said, eyebrows still raised as he turned around, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms across his chest.

Knowing that his only escape probably meant jumping over the wall and falling down the stairs, Arthur tried to assemble his thoughts. "I met Alfred two years ago while he was visiting from our American branch," despite himself, Arthur could feel a nostalgic smile creep onto his face, "He was loud, obnoxious, American and probably everything I don't like about people all bundled up in one annoyingly energetic person. And I had to deal with him. He was one of those young CEO types… thinks they can solve all the world's problems just by being a hero. But he was enchanting… in a little yapper dog kind of way." Laughing, he ran a hand through his short hair. "Listen to me. I sound like a love-struck sap."

"No, it's an interesting side of you _Sourcils_." Francis said, scratching his neck, "Please continue."

Wondering about Francis' sudden interest in his failed love life, Arthur frowned before answering, "We argued constantly. Over everything and anything, from tea versus coffee to what kind of paper worked better in the fax machines. I grew to love arguing with him and even went out of my way to bother him. He constantly argued back and it became our kind of flirting. It was the Christmas when we actually took that next step…"

_Arthur leaned against the window of his office, watching the partygoers dance to the badly sung karaoke around their cubicles and the table of snacks and punch. He sipped from the red plastic cup, laughing slightly as an intern got up on a table and lifted her shirt, much to the approving whoops and cheers from the crowd._

"_You sure know how to party." The door to his bureau was open and Alfred's head was looking inside, cheeks slightly flushed, "I never thought I'd have so much fun at a Brit party." He said, stepping into the office and shutting the door behind him._

_Snorting, Arthur took a large swig of the drink, preparing himself for the coming battle. "Yeah, we Limeys sure know how to throw 'em." He grimaced as the American laughed loudly. "What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be up singing or something?"_

_Still laughing, Alfred came to stand beside him, bumping his shoulder. "Didn't you see my wonderful performance of 'Never Gonna Give You Up?' " Arthur rolled his eyes, trying to keep the screeching memory far in the back on his mind. They said nothing else for a few minutes, simply drinking in silence, watching the woman topple off the table, falling into the arms of the Vice-President._

_As Arthur turned to Alfred, ready to tell him that he had enough of this and was going home, he was surprised to find Alfred's blue eyes boring into him. He stumbled back, but caught himself. "W-what are you doing? Scared me half to death."_

_Leaning forward, Alfred kissed him, sliding his hand around Arthur's neck and pulling him close. Arthur's first thought was nothing more than a white space with large black words that read 'OH MY GOD WHAT?' Following that, he managed to notice that even though he had watched Alfred down two whole cups of beer, there was still the faint taste of coffee. His third thought was something around "Oh god why am I thinking about what Alfred tastes like?" Near the fourth though, his brain seemed to have stopped all cohesive function._

_By this time, Alfred had pulled away and was watching Arthur with a concerned look. It was not often that after a kiss the recipient went still as the grave. "A-arthur?" He asked, stroking his neck, unable to keep the frightened stutter out of his voice. "Are you alright?"_

_Hands found his chest and shoved him away. He recoiled, slamming into the glass. Rubbing his head, Alfred looked up to see Arthur against his desk, chest heaving, face tomato red and his lips fumbled. "Al-alfred!?" He squeaked, flustered, "What the fuck!?"_

"_I-I was just. Well, I thought… You know, it being Christmas and all… Shit…" Alfred ran a hand through his hair, his own face turning red, "Arthur, if you don't… we, I just… look, we can forget this ever happened alright? It won't be awkward, I swear! All my mistake, we can just say we were drunk! Yeah, that's it, we were really drunk."_

_Sighing, Alfred growled low in his throat, racking his hair with both his hands. "I'm sorry, I just thought this would've worked! But, it's my mistake, I'm just gonna go…" Alfred looked as though he was hard-pressed not to run to the door and throw it open, catch the next plane to LA and never see Arthur again._

"_Wait!" Alfred froze, his hand on the doorknob, "Alfred, just, wait a fucking second." Wondering what exactly he was going to say, Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn't take a step towards the man, preferring to stay anchored to his desk, seeing it as somewhat of a safe haven._

_Gradually, Alfred's hand uncurled from the handle and he faced Arthur, shoulders slightly hunched, as if to protect himself from the looming burst of rage. "Art?" He tried, resigning to the nickname. _

_The knots in the wood of his desk felt particularly rough as he clutched it. "I don't mean. I…" Arthur sighed, trying to find the words that escaped him at such a crucial moment, "You just… surprised me. And… I was… no, it was my fault. Don't take it the wrong way, I was just a bit… shocked. But I do…I do like you."_

_Another silence. Arthur noticed that the entire company was up against the glass of his office, all staring, wide-eyed at the two of them. His fingers gripped the desk even tighter and he let his head drop, trying to hide his blush from the watching crowd. There was a sudden set of quick footsteps and Arthur looked up just in time to have Alfred slam his lips into his. He closed his eyes, releasing the desk and wrapping his arms around Alfred's neck, telling his mind to shut up and enjoy the kiss._

_Outside, the assembled partygoers cheered loudly, wolf whistles and hoots filling the air._

"After that, I guess we just…"

"Fell in love?" Francis finished, giving him a cheerless smile.

"Or some rubbish like that." Arthur said. His shoulders slumped as he buried his face in his arms. His eyes felt uncomfortably hot and he tried to not to sniffle, wanting to keep at least some of his dignity - though ending up drunk and pantless pretty much destroyed any he may have had left - in front of Francis.

He jumped slightly as a hand found his shoulder, squeezing it. "I'm sorry _Sourcils_." Francis smiled at him as Arthur looked up from his arms, brushing a finger under his eye.

"S'no problem." The Brit muttered, doing his best not to pout.

"Hey! What's going on up here!?" the two men turned round to see Roma jogging up the stairs, a large icebox in his arms, filled to the brim with fish, a large grin on his face. Francis' hand quickly left Arthur's back as they both straightened, trying to look innocent, though the chef's smile suggested that he knew much more. "I've got some good news and bad news. Good news, is that I'm going to lend you my scooter so you can visit more of the city tonight." Roma said, walking over to the Vespa and setting the icebox down so that he could secure his helmet under his chin.

Arthur and Francis followed suit, putting on helmets and slipping into their respective seats. "What's the bad news?" Arthur asked, accidentally catching the Frenchman's eye and feeling his face heat up at once. Sure, he shares one intimate story with the man and he's reduced to a blubbering, blushing pile of mush.

Something plopped onto his lap and immediately he was assaulted by a strong, salty stench of fish. "You're sharing shotgun with my salmon."

* * *

**Author's Note**

I really have to thank firephantom24 for helping me come up with what Germany would lend France to read. I would've _never_ thought of poetry. Pure genius on her part!

I HAVE A BUFFER. THANK GOD. Just in time too, school's just started and it's my final grade before University, so I've got the buckle down. (luckily there's no chem this term, so I don't have to worry about that =A=) Might start updating whenever and not just once a week, we'll see.

Eggs and milk are actually a very good cure for hangovers. Not that I checked or anything.

And why the canon-esque Hetalia scene at the beginning? No idea, your guess is as good as mine. *wanted reason to have Gilbo kick Iggy in face while wearing boots*


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

One very smelly, unpleasant, heart attack-inducing scooter ride later, Arthur found himself standing beside the Vespa, watching Roma detached the sidecar while Francis was sitting on the main body, double-checking where all the dials and knobs - all _three_ of them, it wasn't a rocket ship for Christ's sake.

"Have fun you two!" The chef said, "Don't ride them too hard, okay?" He gave the Francis a very significant smile, raising his eyebrows in Arthur's direction.

Once he was out of earshot, Arthur turned to Francis, arms folded tightly against his chest. "I'm just going to pretend he was only referring to the scooter."

"Whatever you say _Sourcils._" Francis said, patting the seat behind him. It took the Englishman a moment to clamber onto the scooter and almost an entire minute to position himself so that he was touching as little of Francis as he could, while still maintaining a safe hold on him. A task only made more difficult be the tilt of the seat that almost always landed Arthur's hips right against Francis'.

"_Allons-y_!" Whooping loudly, Francis revved the engine and the small scooter jumped ahead, speeding along the cramped roadway. Arthur clung to him as they drove through the streets, trying to make himself as small as possible so as not catch his arms or legs on the buildings that bordered the road. Despite the breakneck speed Arthur found himself enjoying the ride and even relaxing enough to look around at the city life. There were people of every kind, moving in the constant pulse that made the capital come to life. Francis turned a sharp corner, barely missing a car, causing Arthur to swear loudly, burrowing his head back into the Frenchman's shirt.

He could feel Francis' chest rumble with laughter and an unwelcome blush flushed across his cheeks. Closing his eyes and trying to calm himself, he breathed in the city - the proletariat that littered the streets, the ancientness Rome whispered into the night, the life that every inhabitant carried - and the musky smell of sweet pastry and lilies that seemed to cling to Francis. Sighing contentedly, he snuggled close to the warm back, enjoying the cool air that weaved through his hair and across his burning cheeks.

It was night by the time Francis stopped. Arthur managed to detach himself from the man - and he thought Roma's driving was wild - and stepped off the scooter, stretching and staring around. It was a small square, most of the space taken up by an extravagant fountain. Dozens of people were milling around, filling their air with an exotic sound made up of dialects from every corner of the world, the chatter louder than the low rumble of the water. Lights shined from underneath, making the water and stone glow slightly. Francis placed his hands on his hips proudly, as if he had built the spring himself. "_Et Volià!_ _La __Fontaine__ de Trevi!"_

Arthur took a moment to look around, staring at Poseidon - who looked ready to drown the world - then looked at his companion, folding his arms. "It's a bit touristy."

The Frenchman seemed to deflate, arms falling from his hips as he shook his head in exasperation. "You can't go to Rome and not visit _Fontaine de Trevi._" He gripped Arthur's upper arm, dragging him through the crowd, managing to get him right at the edge of the pool. The water glittered up at him, reflecting the streetlights and the constant flashes of cameras. He reached forward, dipping his fingers in the water, splashing slightly before turning to Francis with a look that said, 'Happy? Can we go now?'

"We have to throw three coins before we can leave." Francis said, fishing in his pockets and pulling out a handful of change, dumping a few coins into Arthur's hand, "C'mon, don't be a sourpuss _Sourcils._"

"It's stupid."

"Then why is everyone else doing it?" Francis said, gesturing around at the numerous tourists gathered around the edge, all cheering and chattering happily over the continuous 'plop' of coins.

"Why do lemmings all throw themselves off cliffs?" Arthur retorted.

"I don't think throwing coins into _La__ Fontaine de__ Trevi_ is the same as throwing yourself off a cliff," Francis gently bumped Arthur's shoulder, nudging him in the direction of the pool, "Go on. It'll be _fun~_" He said, adding a singsong voice to the last word, which earning himself a glare from Arthur.

Sighing, Arthur turned his back to the fountain. "Fine." Knowing Francis, he wasn't going anywhere until he played along. Totally okay with him going out and getting piss drunk, but the minute he wasn't participating in Closing his eyes, he tossed a piece over his shoulder, listening to his plop into the water.

"You know there's story behind the fountain." Francis said. Arthur was sure he was purposely not looking at him, rather gazing at the statue of Poseidon with a dazed, far-off, reminiscent smile. "Magic spells and promises… _très charmant._" Arthur wasn't sure if the Frenchman was just acting, but the effect was alluring, despite his best efforts to remain sullen.

"Magic?" He said, trying to keep his voice controlled. Arthur may or may not have had a slight obsession with the occult, but Francis didn't need to know that. Alfred (him again) had more than once walked in on him mixing a number of herbs and ingredients or muttering Latin over a hundred-year-old tome. He usually took it in stride, using it as blackmail and mocking material, always in the most good-natured of ways, bothering Arthur just enough to get him ticked off so they could have great make-up, make-out sessions after.

Francis nodded, his voice snapping Arthur out of his reminiscing. "Magic. The legend goes that if you throw three coins, each assures a different promise. Like making a wish, but the wishes are already chosen."

Taking another glance around at the crowd, the Brit sighed and shook his head in resignation. "What are the wishes?"

"I'm not telling until you throw." Francis sang, wagging his finger at Arthur, who immediately tossed the coin over his shoulder, ready to anything to stop the wiggling,"That guarantees a return to Rome."

_Brilliant. I can come back one day and spend time in a very nice hotel, _alone,_ without a Frenchman or annoying Italians or angry Germans._ Arthur thought bitterly, hoping that Francis' unusual mindreading abilities were working at that exact moment. He tossed the next coin. "What does that one mean?"

"New love." Francis said with the smallest and most _irritatingly knowing_ smile.

Arthur wasn't sure if the ghost of the wink was his imagination. He also wasn't sure if he wanted to throw the next coin and find out it meant, 'And you will be shagged in the next twenty-four hours by a Frenchman and then will be married to him by Roderich while your not-crush acts as your Maid of Honour.'

But he did anyway. "There all done."

"Marriage," Francis said as the coin arced gracefully into the water, "Or divorce depending on if your glass if hall-full or half-empty." They stood quietly for a moment, Arthur wondering vaguely if both were a possible outcome, or if one really had to happen over the other. And then he realized, in a much less vague manner, that he had considered the possibility of marrying a man he had known for less than five days twice in the last minute.

"Well, let's go find something to eat," Food. The solution to every problem, even awkward half-daydreams about matrimony. "I'm starving."

"_Un moment_," Francis hurried away, Arthur watched him weave through the crowd, rubbing his arms as the cool night settled around him. The square was slowly emptying of people, leaving him with nothing more to listen to than the low gurgle of the fountain, and the suspicious noises issuing from the two people embracing beside him. When the Frenchman returned he held a single rose in his hand. Arthur immediately froze up as Francis bowed his head slightly, offering the flower.

"What? A rose?" He managed after a moment of staring at the flower as if it were one of Gilbert's Cojones. After realizing that is wasn't he red death drink, but a rose, and a _red_ rose no less, Arthur immediately held up his hands, trying to back away from Francis. The back of his knees hit the edge of the pool, blocking his escape. "Francis, I can't accept this-"

Long fingers wrapped around his hand, pulling it forward and Francis pressed the rose into his palm. "It's a gift. Consider it a celebration of taking chances and meeting new people." Francis poked his forehead, placing a hand on his hip and winking at him, "Don't be so tense _Soucils._"

Holding it for a moment as if he was scared it was going to explode, Arthur's arms slowly relax and he brought the flower to his nose, breathing the scent deeply and smiling. His father always bought his mother roses every Sunday so that he'd wake up to the smells of her fresh baking (he was unlucky to have not inherited her cooking skills) and the sweet scent of the flowers. He twirled to rose idly in his fingers, feeling oddly calm, "What does that mean anyway?" He asked, glancing at Francis, "_Sourcils_?"

A guilty smile. Just one twitch of his lip and Arthur couldn't help but speculate. _Beautiful, it's got to be mean beautiful. No, that's 'belle' even I know that one. Talented? No that'd stupid, who would go around calling someone 'talented'? Maybe it means 'honey' or 'dear'… okay, no, I hope it doesn't meant that, I don't, not-, Francis, I mean, oh God, I can't even figure it out. Shit._

"It means 'eyebrows.' "

Silence. The bubble of the fountain. The moans from the couple. The flash of the few remaining cameras. A guilty smile. A hand tightening around the rose. Green glares at blue. The slow inhale, and then, "You FROG BASTARD!" Arthur shouted, fists clenching. With a laugh, Francis turned on his heel and fled the square, Arthur taking only a moment to tear after him. They raced through the streets, Arthur reminding himself the entire time that he needed more exercise. You never know when you might need to chance a cheeky Frenchman through the streets of Rome.

The two ran until both were out of breath and had to lean against the wall of an alley, both panting, Arthur clutching his side, one of the rose's thorn poking him. Francis was the first to recover, chuckling lightly and running hand through his hair, attempting to get it back into a somewhat presentable fashion. "Well you have to admit," Francis said, "They are very _frappant_."

For good measure, Arthur punched his shoulder, still gasping for breath. "I'll take that as an insult." They both straightened looking around the small square they had stumbled upon. It was empty save for a small fountain in the middle, a café and a church off the side, whose steps were being swept by a nun who was watching the two men with an evil glare. "Look, there's a restaurant over there, let's get something to eat." Arthur said, wanting to get away from the scary old lady more than anything. Francis didn't hesitate and followed him over to the café.

One they were finished with the meagre meal, Arthur had been surprised to find himself missing Roma's cooking already, Francis took Arthur's hand, ignoring the pink flush on his cheeks and dragging him past the nun -how long was is taking her to sweep those steps!?- led him to a small convenience store. After some haggling and bickering between the shopkeep, his assistant and Arthur (arguing the mechanics of ice-cream in a foreign language wasn't exactly easy) the two sat of the edge of the fountain, slowly eating their ice-cream as night began to fall. The crazy old nun had disappeared inside so that they didn't have to feel awkward while eating.

He tilted his head upward, chomping down the last bit of his cone. Clouds were covering the sky and before he could even form a word to Francis the light drizzle that had pervaded all day gave way to a torrential downpour. Arthur and Francis hurried to find shelter, hiding on the steps of the church, watching water pour off the roof. Arthur shivered, moving closer to his companion. He was not so proud to ignore a source of heat in the freezing rain. They didn't say anything, Arthur just sitting, trembling fingers still playing with the rose while Francis was watching him shiver, his eyebrows furrowing.

"I'm cold okay?" Arthur snapped, the cold getting the better of him, "I came to Rome because I was expecting warmth, not the fucking Scottish Coast with Italians." He pouted, still hugging his arms, wondering why he still was carrying the stupid rose.

"You didn't come here because I was an extremely good looking Frenchman?"

"O-of course not! Don't be so full of yourself! Bloody bastard…"

"Are you sure~?"

"I am very sure! Don't think for one second your French guile will work on me!"

Francis sighed, trying to shuffle closer to Arthur, who had to use all of his will power not to in lean any closer, despite the warmth radiating off his companion. Shaking his head, he took once last glance at Arthur -not that Arthur wasn't watching him out of the corner of his eye or anything and got to his feet.

"I'll be right back." He took a deep breath and threw himself into the street, running across the square and disappearing into the deluge. In an instant Arthur was also on his feet, yelling at him to return before he caught his death. There was no answer save the splatter of rain and the creaking of the door as the nun poked her head out, glaring at Arthur. He did his best to ignore her and hugged himself unable to see the Francis' tall frame through the sheets of rain. He waited, quivering violently, trying to tune out the nun's incessant mutterings in Italian, calling for Francis every few moments. Just as Arthur was about to step out into the rain did the slapping of feet on wet stone announced Francis' return.

The Frenchman was sopping wet and scowling slightly, holding a cup in his hand that he passed to Arthur. "I could only afford one." Francis sat down, shaking his head, flicking water at Arthur, who shrank away. He sniffed the cup's steaming contents interestedly. "It's Earl Grey…" Francis said, rubbing his arms and pulling his legs close to his chest, now shivering. Arthur stared at the Frenchman, white shirt was clinging to his thin frame, looking guilty down at the tea.

"T-thank you." Arthur said finally, sipping and relaxing as the warmth spread through his body. "T-this doesn't count as French charm, okay?" He tried a smile, but Francis was shaking violently, head buried in his arms, trying to stay warm. Making up his mind to stop being such a prick, he stood, taking his coat off and wrapping it around the Frenchman's quaking shoulders. Francis grabbed the material, pulling it tighter around him. Arthur shifted closer to him, leaning his head on Francis' arm and drinking his tea.

Half an hour passed and eventually the rain died down. The minute it was liveable, the door to the church opened and the nun who started flapping her hands at them, speaking rapid, angry Italian. Francis jumped to his feet, pulling Arthur up with him and hurried away, shouting a few words of apology as they fled the scene. As they mounted the scooter this time, Arthur didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around Francis' waist, yawning widely and leaning his head against Francis' back, closing his eyes. The small vehicle puttered into life and gently carried them through the sleepy city.

Francis slowed down as they neared the hostel. The scooter stuttered to a stop and the headlight flicked off as the motor died. He tried to move but found that Arthur had fallen asleep, snoring lightly, arms still tucked around his middle. Smiling, Francis carefully picked up the small man, holding him close. The bell above the door jingled as he entered the lobby. Feliciano was dozing on the front desk, a large, black coat spread over his shoulders. Across from him, asleep in an armchair, was Ludwig. He crept by them, making sure to skip the fourth step as he climbed the stairs.

He eased the door open and placed Arthur on his bed. As he closed the door, there was a snuffling and he turned to see the Brit shivering. Crimson bed sheets were pulled along Arthur's thin frame and the quivering stopped as he nestled into the soft bed. Francis reached out and brushed a lock of hair out of the closed eyes, he then slipped into his own bedstead and fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I haven't had time to edit yet, but it'll be all fixed by tomorrow.

Just to be clear, Francis first addresses the fountain by it's French name _La __Fontaine__ Trivie_

_Frappant_ - striking, or noticeable. It comes from the verb "frapper" which means "to hit"

That scooter scene was actually the initial piece I wrote when first designed this story. In it I decided two things: one, they were in Rome and Arthur wasn't supposed to be in Rome and two, that they had never met The plot evolved after that, forming a much longer and more complicated story than I had originally envisioned.

And ZOMGSPOILERZ, Mattie's making his fabled appearance in the next chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A week passed by in relatively listless way. When Arthur wasn't spending time with Francis (he disappeared at odd times, but Arthur didn't ask questions) he would relax in the lobby with Feliciano and Lovino, occasionally playing a game of Risk, which ended up being surprisingly good at. Antonio would pop in now and again, merrily cheering the older Vargas brother on while he lost yet another country to the growing British Empire.

When not embroiled in the fictional destruction of Europe under the Anglo-Prussian Alliance, - Gilbert visited frequently to visit his brother and would join their game, aligning with Arthur and dominating within ten minutes of the start, effectively putting to rest the awkwardness of the "Bar Debacle" - Arthur would find himself with Francis more often than not.

Oddly well-cultured, as if the German, English, Italian and French fluency wasn't a clear indication, Francis seemed versed in everything, from Renaissance art to Swedish pop bands to ancient civilizations. Arthur wondered why he had explained the fall of the Holy Roman Empire as love story between Italy and the Empire, but the tales were so entrancing that he couldn't help but ignore the voice in his head telling him it was stupid and that countries couldn't fall in love.

One fine afternoon they found themselves once again in the lobby, now attempting another game of Monopoly - Lovino had finally gotten over his outburst and was raring to destroy Arthur after yet another humiliating defeat in East Africa- while Francis was sitting in the red armchair, reading the German book of poetry when the phone rang, making everyone jump.

"It's an '867' number…" Feliciano said, glancing at the phone.

"It's probably one of those bastards trying to sell us satellite. Don't answer it." Lovino said, "Last time you almost got us year's worth of oysters."

Antonio snatched the phone out of Feliciano's hand before his brother could, jumping away and clicking the 'talk' button. Arthur suspected that he was doing it just to show the older Vargas sibling what's what. He shot a very significant look (_and you still say they like each other? Please._) at Francis who chuckled and shaking his head.

"_La Dolce Vita,_ Antonio speaking," The Spaniard sang, now attempting to keep Lovino off him with one hand while holding the phone to his ear with the other, "You want to speak to Arthur? Who's this? ...Matthew? I've never heard of you, are you a prank caller? Are you trying to sell me oysters?"

Getting to his feet, Arthur plucked the phone out of the dancer's hand, stepping away from the brawling couple and slipping outside, ignoring Francis' quirked eyebrow. "Hello? Matt? Is that really you?"

"Oh Arthur! I just got a hold of a phone and got your message!" Matthew's light and soft voice issued from the receiver, "Are you alright? Is the hostel okay? Are you dying of hunger? I am so sorry! I'd help but I'm stranded in Nunavut right now!" He sounded as distressed as ever and Arthur found himself smiling despite his brother clear distress.

"It's alright Matthew. I'm fine now, I've found someone to stay with and I'm working out my money problem at the moment." He said, leaning against the outside of the hostel, holding his arm, glancing up at the grey muffled sky.

His brother sighed. "That's good to hear. And… And the…" He hesitated and lowered his voice significantly, "The Alfred thing?"

There was silence from Arthur. Not because he was having another episode of unbelievable grief but because he was surprised. He had barely given any thought to the American since they had arrived in the city -save for the one moment of weakness near the docks along with the numerous other tiny pricks of remembrance. So much had been going on and Alfred seemed like something out of a past life. A past life that Arthur wasn't too keen on revisiting.

Matthew seemed to interpret his hush not as a thoughtful musing, but rather as a depressed, miserable, despondent grieving. "Oh Arthur!" He cried,"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean, eh, I didn't...oh God…" He trailed off.

Arthur could almost see the tears bubbling in the corners of the blue eyes, which only intensified his amusement. "Don't worry Matt. I'm actually doing really well. I've met someone," a small flush appeared on his cheeks, and he attempted to correct himself, "I-I mean, some other people that have helped take my mind off him." He hoped that Matthew wouldn't notice his stumble.

Being the good brother he is, Matthew did catch the stutter. "Someone-?" He started, but there was a click and a new voice spoke across him.

"Mattie! Like, who are you talking to? I need to, like, use the phone!" Arthur almost dropped the handheld. He knew that accent all too well. It was the Polish researcher that was travelling with Matthew, whom Arthur had only had the displeasure of meeting once and hoped to never lay eyes on him again.

Arthur's history with Felix had started when Matthew had dragged him to a conference once, saying he was nervous and needed support. Arthur had almost opted out until his brother had casually -oh _so_ casually- mentioned the open bar. Only under the heavy influence of three shots of tequila and two beers could he have mistaken Felix Łukasiewicz for a female. That night, Felix (or 'Poppy' as he was known) was the most brilliant, charming and interesting person he had ever met - who wasn't when you were drunk - and only as he made the run to second base did he discover Felix's mannish disposition.

Since then he had never touched Canadian beer or been able to face the Pole without wanting to vomit.

Matthew's slightly exasperated voice wrestled him out of his sickly reminiscence. "I'm talking to my brother Felix," He said, "I'll be off in a second."

"But I need to talk, like, now!" Felix whined back, his voice screeching against Arthur's hearing like nails on a chalkboard. He considered hanging up the phone when yet another click echoed across the lines and a new, much less irksome, voice spoke.

"Felix! Leave Matthew alone! He's trying to talk to his brother." It was the Lithuanian that was also working with Matthew, Toris. Much, much, _much_ politer than Felix, he had taken pity on Arthur, leading him away from the Pole while he was testing out his substantial vocabulary of profanities. After calming Arthur down, Toris had found Matthew, found them a taxi and a few days later had called to apologize for the confusion.

"He doesn't like men…" Toris had tried to explain to a bruised-ego Arthur, "He just likes girl clothes more." Too stunned to come up with a rebuttal, Arthur had simply muttered a small 'thank you' and hung up the phone, spending the rest of day nursing his hangover and washing his hands, wondering if he'd ever feel clean again.

"Go away Tor!" Felix said, "I'm, like, totally freaking out! I need to call Ed and Rav, like, _NOW_." The connection actually feedback slightly from the force of the last word, making Arthur yelp.

Above the reverb and the still bickering scientists, Matthew attempted to have himself heard, his quiet voice barely audible. "I'm sorry! Just a few more minutes Felix!" Which only started an even louder and more irksome response.

Arthur held the phone at arm's length, raising his voice in a vague hope that his brother would hear him. "No, it's alright. I'll call you if I have any troubles, okay Matthew?"

There was silence form the receiver that Arthur could only suspect meant that Toris had located Felix and hung up his phone or that the Pole had a sudden epiphany about his hair not being spiffy enough and had wandered off. After a few moments of silence, Matthew spoke, quietly, as though scared at any moment the rumpus would begin again, "You sure Art?"

"I'm sure." He nodded, realizing that Matthew couldn't see him and stopping immediately, "Have fun on your trip okay? Stay warm and don't lose any fingers."

"Same to you." His brother paused, "A-about the fun trip, not the losing fingers thing… Bye." The line went dead, but Arthur didn't go inside right away, taking a moment to himself. Matthew's phone call had been a blip in his trip, a small chuck of reality coming to knock against his head, reminding him of his life outside _Via Del Sole_. He tapped the phone against his brow, blowing a raspberry with his lips as he wandered back inside.

Antonio and Lovino had disappeared while Feliciano was packing up the game of Monopoly. "If you get a bill for a long-distance call," Arthur whispered, passing the phone to the Italian, "Just tell me and I'll pay for it."

Smiling, Feliciano placed the phone away and muttered something about visiting Ludwig and flounced up the stairs. The oak desk proved to be a good leaning place, and Arthur wasn't sure if his legs were ready to hold him as reality was settling around his shoulders, nestling there.

"Who was that?" He turned around to see Francis watching him, the book of poetry closed, sitting on his lap.

"Just my brother…" This time he actually slid down an inch, still clinging to the desk, "He's travelling in northern Canada and couldn't get a hold of me until now." He pursed his lips wondering why he was feeling so antsy, even his foot was tapping. There was a quiet beat pulsing through the air. "I-is that music?"

Francis got to his feet, quirking his head. "_Mais oui_…" Prying himself off the desk, Arthur followed his companion who was wandering over towards the door leading to the small courtyard.

As they peaked around the door, Arthur noticed two things. One, it wasn't raining, well not hard, the light drizzle that had come to be standard still prevailed. But other thing that was even more distracting than the lack of bad weather, but the two men apparently dancing in the small courtyard. Antonio was holding a frustrated Lovino, trying to guide him through the steps of a dance.

Just as Arthur and Francis attempted to sneak back into the hostel, Lovino stepped on Antonio's foot, causing the Spaniard to let go of him, wincing, but still smiling. "Lovino!" He whined, reaching out and pulling the Vargas brother into a headlock, fluffing his head, "This is a dance of passion! Don't treat it like a job! You were the one who wanted to do it in the first place!"

While Arthur tried to figure out how they went from fighting over the phone to tangoing, the Italian pushed Antonio off him, his cheeks flushing a bright red as they puffed out. "Shut up you bastard! I am trying!"

Before Antonio could continue his teasing, Francis intruded on their small scene, giving the pair a small wave. "Perhaps I can help?" The Italian's flush turned and even more vibrant read and he clutched Antonio's shirt, trying to pull him away from the Frenchman.

The Spaniard ignored the tugging and floated over to Francis, all smiles. "Oh, Francis. You've danced?"

"Once," He flipped his hair, gazing forlornly off into the distance, "In another lifetime." Arthur rolled his eyes.

Clapping his hands, Antonio glanced down at Lovino, who was not practically glued to his sleeve. "If you see the dance, do you think that would help Lovino?" He asked, still smiling. Arthur wondered if his jaw was stuck like that. The Vargas nodded, detaching himself from the dancer's shirt and stepping away, taking a place beside Arthur.

As the other two talked for a few minutes Arthur and Lovino did not exchange a word, both having their arms folded tightly against their chest and both looking very unimpressed about the closeness of the Spaniard and the Frenchman. Antonio's hand grabbed Francis' while his other slide around his waist, pulling him close. Arthur could see the Italian's cheeks slowly swelling again as Francis touched Antonio's shoulder.

"Ready?" Antonio asked, not even looking at Lovino, "Okay, start the music."

It took Arthur a moment to realize wasn't even paying attention to the dance. He was waiting for Francis to look at him. To wink, to smile or even a small nod, anything. A minute passed and Francis had not even spared a glance. He cleared his throat, but a tiny nagging voice inside his head told him that Francis couldn't hear him, that he was too focused on being as close to Antonio as possible. And then, in a blinding moment of realization that made Arthur want to yell and rage and hide away at the same time, his brain reminded him of what this notion was called. Jealousy.

Feeling detached and numb from the world, Arthur slowly crept backwards, opening the door back into the hostel and slipping inside. The music could still be heard and his brain was trying to process the new emotion eating him from the inside. This wasn't like Alfred. There was anger and want there, but with Francis, something else was bothering him. His feet felt heavy as he climbed the stairs, stumbling into his room. His knees hit the ground as he sank to his feet, staring blankly at the hardwood floor.

Jealousy. All over one, stupid Frenchman.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I need to write Toris and Felix more. I think they and Matthew probably had some nice times stuck in the north with nothing to do but talk to each other. Fun times.

"I, like, spy with my little, like, eye… something… white."

"Is it the snow?"

"Oh my god! Totally! How did you, like, know?"

"Lucky guess."

I walked upstairs one day and my dad was all like "Listen to this!"

_Well I don't mind, wastin' my time on this crazy afternoon  
I got sunshine and red wine, a friend-o-mine, takin' it easy.  
But oh my soul, I lost control of my reality,  
Cause I got sunshine and red wine but there's hardly nothin' left of me_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"I thought I'd find you moping up here." Watching him from the doorway was Francis, his cheeks slightly flushed, a few strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

Arthur looked up from his place on the floor. He did not know how long he had sat there, but judging from the numb feeling in his feet, it had been quite a long time. "Not moping," He said stubbornly, testing out his toes to see if they were still attached, "Just forgot something."

Stepping into the room, the Frenchman closed the door behind him, leaning against it. "And what was that?" He asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

"My… shirts needed folding." Arthur gestured vaguely in the direction of a half-open drawer. He watched Francis glance inside, knowing full well that all the shirts were in disarray. His feet now completely detached from his legs, Arthur slide onto his bottom, leaning against his bed. Francis sat down beside him, bumping his shoulder until he shifted over. They sat there for a few minutes, blood flow returning to Arthur's feet slowly but surely, neither willing to break the hard silence that had fallen.

Did Francis know how Arthur was feeling? Did he really know that the tiny monster that had originally been for Alfred was now turning into something much bigger and much more French? Did he really know how angry Arthur felt about the fact that he was _jealous_ over a Frenchman? Arthur sighed, betting that Francis probably did know.

On some invisible cue, Francis got to his feet, stretching and offering his hand. "Come." He said, wiggling his fingers invitingly. Jutting out his chin, Arthur took the proffered hand, Francis tugging him to his feet. He tried to walk towards the door, intending to go visit Five Meters for a round of drinks with Gilbert, but Francis still held his hand. "Would you like to tango?" He asked, squeezing Arthur's hand.

Arthur felt his cheeks heat up immediately. "W-what?" He feigned deafness, hoping Francis would be deterred and let go of his hand and pretend that he had said nothing. After a week with the man, you think he would've learned how determined the Frenchman could be.

Shaking his head, Francis pulled Arthur closer, their chests bumping as he reached out and grabbed Arthur's hip. With a small gasp of surprise, Arthur recoiled, stumbling away from Francis, his breathing unusually shallow and face burning. Seeing the slightly hurt look on the elegant face, Arthur attempted to come up with an escape, a reason as to why the sudden contact had scared him.

"I am not a woman!" _Oh, that was brilliant._

Francis looked as though he was trying not to laugh. "In tango, there are only partners. The dance is nothing without other. With no one to lead," He held out a hand, "The dance has no structure. With no one to follow," He held out his other hand, "The dance is meaningless." He clapped his hands together, watching Arthur over his fingertips.

Cautiously, Arthur moved towards Francis. "You stole that from Antonio, didn't you?" Francis raised his eyebrows, looking abnormally unimpressed. "I still am not a woman." Arthur huffed.

"I know Arthur." He cracked a smile, "Do you really want to learn?"

Taking a deep breath, Arthur nodded. "Yes." He reached out his hand, waiting for Francis to move him.

Francis took one of Arthur's hands, placing it on his shoulder, and then slide his fingers around Arthur's hip. Smiling, he took their free hands and clasped them. Arthur hoped Francis wouldn't notice how sweaty his palms were getting. "Comfortable?" He asked, their chests brushing.

"Hardly." Arthur said, shifting on his feet. This was different to say the least. While Francis enjoyed subtle touches here and there - their arms brushing always managed to send goosebumps along his skin - but this was new, closer…intimate even.

His heart beat painfully somewhere near his throat as Francis took the first step.

Intimate? No. It couldn't be intimacy, he had known this man for a week. And yet, Arthur was sure his heart wasn't pumping furiously just because they were dancing. Such slow, guided and warm steps couldn't induce even the faintest rise in his blood pressure, so what was it? Maybe his blood pressure was rising due to stress. But the stress of a hostel on the outskirts of Rome really didn't mean much.

"You're stiff Arthur, relax a bit."

Love? That couldn't be it. That couldn't possibly be it. He wasn't in love with Francis. Was he? Were all those looks, the moments they've shared, the flirting he was trying so hard to ignore, did they all mean something? Did Francis really like him more than a simple travelling companion? Well, it was clear that he did like Arthur. He knew the Frenchman could've had any person in less than a day with is suave charm.

"I'm doing my best Francis. It's not like everyone is just as _naturally_ gifted as you are."

Charm? Was that all Arthur had fallen for? Or did he actually like something underneath all that debonair manner and good looks? Did he love Francis, or did he love the _idea_ of Francis? Did he even _love_ Francis or was the Frenchman just a victim of a severe rebound?

"And then we dip." Arthur felt himself being led down and immediately panicked, gripping Francis' shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut, "Keep going" Only when he was a foot off the ground did his decent. He opened his eyes, squinting up at Francis' amused face, "Not bad."

They straightened, Arthur finding himself unable to look away from Francis' eyes. _Love? Really? _His hands fell to his sides, but Francis still held his hip. Long fingers gently brushed the flushed cheek, tucking the short hair behind Arthur's ear. The Englishman didn't shy away and Francis' hand moved down, tracing along his jawline, sitting beneath his chin. The white dress shirt was soft as Arthur clutched it, leaning closer. He could feel Francis' heart beating frantically and his own pumping furiously in response. He swallowed as fingers guided his chin upwards. His eyes closed and warm breath - again, the subtlest hint of lilies - ghosted along his lips.

"Arthur!" Both men jumped as the shout echoed up through the thin walls. Arthur's eyes flew open, "Come get the phone! Someone's calling for you!" Lovino yelled again.

Hesitating, Arthur looked at the door, then back at Francis. _Screw if it's just a crush, I want this._ "Just wait one second Lovino!" He gripped Francis' shirt, pulling him closer.

"Get fucking down here before I hang up!" The Italian called, his voice seeming to shake dust from the ceiling.

Scoffing quietly, Francis released Arthur, turning away and walking to the balcony. Swearing, Arthur hurried out of the room. "Coming you Italian bastard!" He yelled, jumping the last two stairs.

Lovino was waving the phone at him, his face sweaty and hair suspiciously ruffled. Outside, Antonio was nursing a growing lump on his head. Snatching the phone out of the Italian's hand, he stalked over the armchair, throwing himself into it. "What?!" He barked, hoping that Matthew wasn't on the line.

"Hey Arthur, it's me."

He froze. "Alfred?"

"Who else?" His cocky grin came to the forefront of his mind, innocent yet entirely self-assured. Automatically, Arthur glanced towards the stairs.

"Why are you calling?" He asked, huddling a little deeper into the chair, glaring at the eavesdropping Italian.

The American sounded slightly taken aback at Arthur's stern tone. "The bank's been calling me lately." He said, "Are you having money problems or something?"

Arthur thought it best not to mention the night he had called Alfred back in Paris and asked for money. "No, I'm fine. How did you get this number?"

"The bank gave me a contact for a bank in Rome. I don't know why Rome, and some angry guy there gave me this number. You're a hard guy to find Artie." He said, chuckling lightly, clearly not even registering the use of Arthur's nickname.

"Right." He paused, and finally asked the question that had been plaguing him since France, "How's your new roommate?"

"Oh, Ivan's fine." Alfred's would-be casual voice answered and he quickly changed topics, "And you're sure you're all right Art? You sound a bit stressed, were you doing something?"

Arthur glanced at the stairs, wondering if the scent of flowers was just his imagination. "I'm fine. No big deal."

"So, where are you exactly?"

"I'm in Rome." He really didn't want to lie. And maybe a part of him wanted Alfred to feel a _little_ guilty for being utterly unhelpful in his time of need.

There was silence before Alfred's voice exploded out of the receiver. "Rome?!" He cried and Arthur could see his glasses bouncing on his nose as he jumped out of seat in surprise, "Arthur! How in the hell did you get over there?! You're supposed to be in France!"

Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Believe me, I know that. There was an issue."

"Issue!?" Alfred spluttered, "Arthur, I'm coming to get you right now." Arthur could hear the scrapping of a chair and the pad of feet as Alfred stood and for a moment he believed that Alfred was actually coming to get him.

"What?" That was until a new, devastatingly familiar voice entered the conversation, "Where are we going Alfred? We have plans tonight."

Arthur knew that Alfred's hand was over the phone, but that didn't quiet his loud voice one bit. "Not now Iv."

"You are not flying to Rome. Alfred, we are not together anymore." His throat constricted slightly and he coughed, "I can manage myself. Go with Ivan, whatever you "roommates" do these days." His left hand did half-hearted air-quotes. There was silence from the other end and Arthur watched Lovino sneak back outside before the Alfred spoke again.

"Ivan and I…" He lowered his voice, whispering, "We're not like that. I mean, we've done it, but more to get over initial awkwardness than anything."

Arthur's lips formed a thin line. "You shagged each other to get to know each other?"

"Exactly!" The American's voice was immediately as chipper as usual, "I knew you'd get it Arthur."

"I'm hanging up now Alfred. Goodbye." Arthur clicked the 'end' key and resisted the urge the throw the phone against the wall. He walked over to the desk, squeezing behind and hanging the phone up.

Slowly, he walked back up the stairs, determinedly not looking outside into the courtyard. Once back in his room, he shut the door. Francis looked around at the noise and found Arthur inches from him. Fingers clutched at his shirt. Francis slid his arms around Arthur's waist.

The door exploded open and Feliciano leapt into the room. "Arthur! Francis! We have new guests!" He sang, "Thought you might like to meet them!" Freezing mid-step, he noticed the two men wrapped around each other. A small blush appeared on his cheeks while a delighted smile spread across his lips. "Am I interrupting something?" He asked, quirking his head and grinning in a much-too Elizaveta fashion.

Arthur and Francis quickly back away from each other. "No…" said Arthur, nervously scratching his neck, "Let's go meet these new guys." The Italian nodded enthusiastically and bounded from the room. The two men followed after him, and as they closed the door to their room, Arthur whispered, "Maybe they'll be normal."

"In this place?" Francis said, running a hand through his hair, "I doubt it."

* * *

**Author's Note**

I said Alfred wasn't done quite yet~


	10. Chapter 10

Okay, spoilers. It's not Alfred. He didn't hang up the phone, get on a plane and fly to Rome in LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES.

* * *

**Chapter 10**

Arthur had come to the conclusion that Ludwig Beilschmidt was perhaps the most intimidating person he had ever met. A German military hero, at least ahead taller than him and enjoyed hammering nails into things Arthur didn't even know needed nails. He believed that no one would ever be able to scare him more than the German and almost comforted by this fact.

This, however, was before he had met Berwald Oxenstierna.

As they walked into the lobby, Francis and Arthur immediately spotted the two new additions to the small room. One was hugging Feliciano, his bright blue eyes and white-blond hair shining in the florescent light. He had a smile that made Arthur want to run over and cuddle him, but he managed to resist that impulse. Immediately after ignoring that urge, Arthur noticed the man standing behind the embracing Italian and blond. He jumped slightly, bumping into Francis as the tall man's eyes bored into him. This man was even taller than Ludwig, who had just appeared, from the courtyard, greeting the tall guest and his companion.

"Francis! Arthur!" Feliciano let go of the small blond, and hurried over to them, grabbing their arms and dragging them to the new guests, "This is Berwald," He gestured towards the large one, "And Tino!" The small blond gave a friendly wave, taking Arthur and Francis' hands in turn.

"Pleased to meet you." Arthur said, turning to Berwald and offering his hand. "I…" The glasses flashed and Arthur's heart skipped a beat.

A large hand covered his, shaking it with an unexpected gentleness. "Th' s'me." The low voice rumbled. Arthur frowned, wondering if that was a flicker of a smile, but didn't have long to watch as Francis stepped beside him, taking Berwald's now-free hand. "Fr'nc's, r'ght?"

"_Oui~_ Francis Bonnefoy." Berwald's eyes widen and Francis cried out as his hand was crushed by the Swed's, "Ouch! Berwald, _que-fait-tu_?!"

And then, surprising everyone save Tino -who was shaking his head in embarrassment-, the man began to hum. Too flabbergasted to speak, Arthur could only watch, and then, -his eyeballs were going to fall out and he was pretty sure his jaw was going to fall off from shock- Francis started to sing.

"_One last kiss to that blushing cheek_"

Only a singular thought seemed to penetrate Arthur's astonishment. What the fuck?

"_And you're gone for two whole weeks_"

What the bloody fuck.

"_But it's alright_"

What in God's name is going the fuck on?

"'_Cause I've got sunshine all through the night!_"

That didn't just happen, Arthur thought to himself as Francis held the note. Francis did not just break into a pop-ballad, accompanied by a humming Swedish man and an air-guitaring Italian -Feliciano had been quick to join in. That didn't just happen.

_That_.

"Wow, Berwald, so weird that you recognized me."

_Didn't_.

"Y'e're 'ne of my f'av'urite 'rtists…"

_Just._

"Ve~ Francis! You have a great voice."

_Happen_.

"You bloody madmen…" Arthur said, shaking his head. "What the hell? You didn't just break into random song. That doesn't happen, even here." Everyone stared at him as if he had been the one to burst into spontaneous song. He glared back, wondering if he was about to find out that everyone was a part of a secret cult following revolving around Francis. Well, if he was going down and have his body sacrificed, he'd go down glaring at Berwald's stoic face.

Tino stepped forward; placing a hand on his friend's arm (he couldn't reach Berwald's shoulder) "I think we can all just take a deep breath and calm down." There was a general murmur of agreement and nodding of heads, "Good. Does your grandpa still run the café Feliciano? I'd really like some food…" Nodding, the Italian grabbed Ludwig's arm and dragged him out of the hostel, waving at everyone to follow.

As Francis made to follow them, Arthur grabbed the back of his coat. "A popstar." He said, quirking on of his bushy brows, "And I thought you were kidding."

In response, Francis just laughed and sang, "A Frenchman never kids, _Sourcils._"

When they arrived at _Tramonto_ two men in sharp suits that seemed entirely out-of-place stepped out of the restaurant, both looking very displeased, stuffing papers into their briefcases. "You'll regret that!" one of them shouted at Roma, who had followed them out of the door, "You could've been famous!"

"You're not the first," The chef said, waving a dishcloth at them, "Get out of here and don't come back! I'm never leaving Rome, no matter how much you're going to offer me!" The two men piled into a car and pealed down the street, running through a puddle and soaking Ludwig and Berwald.

Arthur was glad he could control his laughter as the two blonds glared at the car. He wouldn't have been surprised if they had sprinted after it, determined to destroy. Roma noticed them and waved a little less-enthusiastically than usual. They all piled into the small restaurant, seating themselves around the table while Roma stood off to the side, folding his arms over his chest.

"Ve~," Feliciano said, tilting his head and staring at the chef, "Is something wrong _Papa_?"

The Roman sighed, taking a seat and running a hand through his short, curly hair. "Those men from America came to visit again," Arthur head twitched slightly, "They offered a penthouse suite this time, thinking we could all move there together."

"You turned them down again, didn't you?" Lovino said, folding his arms and glaring at Roma, "Idiot…"

"Don't call _Papa_ an idiot Lovi!" Feliciano cried. The rest of the table tried to look away, as if they had all suddenly gone deaf and couldn't hear the conversation, "You know why he said no."

His brother shook his head. "He's being selfish. A full-time position as a Supervising Chef in New York City and he says no. We could be rich!" Lovino said, "But he just doesn't want to move out of Rome and so he keeps us here to so he doesn't get lonely."

Roma stood, and for the first time Arthur noticed how imposing the chef could be, even in an apron. "We are not talking about this now." He said in a definitive tone. Silence fell over the table, Lovino continuing to glare at Roma who was staring right back, while Feliciano watched them his hazel eyes big and worried. Mumbling something about getting drinks, Roma got to his feet and disappeared into his kitchen.

Exchanging a worried look with Francis, Arthur cleared his throat. The mood around the table slowly relaxed, though eyes often flickered to the kitchen. Tino attempted to make small talk with the younger Italian while Antonio and Lovino were talking in low voices, surprisingly quiet and the Spaniard was not smiling for once.

"So, Berwald." Arthur did his best not to jump as the hard eyes fell on him. "What do you do for a living?"

A hand pushed the glasses higher up his nose. " 'm an 'terior d'cor'tor."

Arthur blinked. "An… interior decorator?" The Swed nodded, "Like, IKEA…?" The Englishman hoped that he hadn't just insulted the man, which would chalk up his score of '_Insulting Large Men of Germanic-Descent in Italian Restaurants'_ to two. Luckily, Berwald just nodded, reaching into his coat and pulling out a page from an IKEA catalogue and smoothing it out on the table.

He pointed at a room. It was probably one of the most refined things Arthur had even seen and me made a mental note to go shopping when he returned to London. Perhaps buying new furniture could help him get over Alfred. "I d'sign'd th't."

"It's… really great." Arthur said, nodding his head numerous times before stopping when he caught Francis staring at him, eyebrows raised. "I'm impressed. I would've never pegged you as a designer."

There was a quiet laugh and Tino pulled his chair over, plopping down beside Berwald. Feliciano was now talking to Ludwig, who was holding the Italian's hand, his face slowly turning pink. "Most people don't guess that," Tino said, grinning, "He looks more like a Viking."

Arthur offered a hesitant smile, the Finn may have felt safe joking about Berwald, but Arthur's still was expecting the man to pull out a gun and shot him, a hitman sent by some hold crush wanting to exact revenge. "What about you Tino?" He asked, trying to keep his eyes off the Swed, "What do you do for a living?"

"I write children's books."

"Oh, that's a new one." Arthur said, "What do you write them about?"

"I write them about our dog." Tino said, looking at Berwald, smiling widely. Cheeks flushing a light pink, the tall blond turned his head, trying to hide his face.

"_Your_ dog?" Arthur asked, not quite sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"Yes." Tino said, reaching out and touching Berwald's leg, making the pink blush turn a deep red, "_Our_ dog."

The subject conversation quickly turned to the weather.

For five minutes, they sat in an awkward silence, Arthur keeping his eyes trained on his hands, which were sitting in his lap. When Roma still hadn't returned, Ludwig got to his feet, jerking his head towards the door of the café. Antonio, Tino and Berwald all quickly left, while Ludwig hung back a moment whispering to Feliciano. The Italian shook his head, hurrying and grabbing Lovino's wrist -who was sneaking towards the kitchen- and dragging him out of the restaurant. Francis and Arthur left and Ludwig closed the door.

"Should I not ask?" Arthur said, walking quickly, trying to keep up with the German's militaristic stride while beside him, Francis easily matching the long paces.

"No." Ludwig said, glancing over his shoulder and looking at the Vargas brothers, who were hanging behind, talking to each other. "Roma's a world-class chef and gets offered jobs often, but refuses to move. Lovino wants to move, Feliciano doesn't want to upset either of them."

Thinking it better to keep his mouth shut, Arthur slowed down, letting Ludwig speed ahead of him. Francis also hung back, not quite looking at the Englishman, but Arthur was sure the blue eyes were watching him when he wasn't looking.

After a few quiet and uncomfortable goodnights, the guests all ambled off to their rooms, Berwald and Tino going to the third floor. After washing his face, Arthur opened the door to his room. Francis was sitting against the dresser, one leg stretched out the other bent, a book leaning against his knee. A particularly loud thump came from the floor above, making him look up. "You don't think…" He said wonderingly to Francis, "They're…"

The Frenchman glanced up from his book, quirking his head. "No." He shifted, "If it starts later… then I might change my answer."

Arthur shuffled towards Francis, yawning and plopping down, wrapping his arms around the bent leg. "You really think they're together?" He asked, resting his hand on the top of Francis' knee, settling his cheek on his fingers. "That's almost as weird Lovino and Antonio…"

"You were wrong about them too, _Sourcils_." Francis pointed out, turning a page in his book. "So you really can't guess."

Exhaling, watching his breath make Francis' long hair flutter slightly. "Maybe I'm just bad at romance." He said, with maybe just the tiniest hint of bitterness.

Holding his book with one hand, Francis reached out with the other, grabbing Arthur's hand. He brought it to his mouth and brushed a kissed across Arthur's knuckles. The Englishman tried to quell the shivers that had suddenly coursed through his body. "You can't be that bad Arthur…" Francis said, letting his hand go and smiling warmly, "I mean you've got m-"

"What?" Arthur said, leaning on Francis' knee, his eyes shining with something akin to anticipation.

Francis coughed, bringing a hand to his mouth. "I-I… _C'est rein._" He waved his hand, quickly bringing through his hair, "Just talking without thinking."

"Didn't sound like that to me."

Francis got to his feet, snapping his book shut and tossing it onto the dresser. He walked over to his bed, sitting on the edge, facing away from the rest of the room. When he didn't speak, Arthur sighed, clambering into his own bed, positioning himself to look out the French doors, not wanting to bother Francis.

"I just meant," He turned. Francis still wasn't looking at him, his longer fingers gripping the sheets of his bed, "That you can't be that bad with _l'amour_ Arthur. You've managed to…"

Arthur sat up. "Yes?" He asked, unable to keep the tone of excitement out of his voice.

"That you've managed to make me… question," Arthur shoulders slumped and Francis' fingers tightened on the blankets. "You've made me question what love is."

* * *

**Author's Note**

I've got this thing where in all my AUs (well, the planned ones) Berwald is always an interior decorator. Always.

I have no shame in admitting that I listened to "Don't Stop Believing" from _glee_ while writing this. (I love the playlist I have for this story XD)


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Arthur wondered how his initial plan of "tour vineyards of France and forget failed love life in constant drunken stupor" had become "go to Rome with insufferably charming Frenchman, stay in hostel run by Italian brothers and go to beach with said Italians and their pseudo-grandfather, a German repairman, a Spanish dancer, a Finnish writer, a Swedish interior designer and a Prussian bartender. **Drink. No. Wine.**"

Oh well. At least it had stopped raining. The Italian sunshine had finally shown itself, glowing and brilliant as dawn rose. Feliciano had practically run into their room shouting at the top of his lungs, making them both bolt awake. "The beaaaach!" Arthur managed to decipher in the Italian's blabbering. "I brought you suits! Let's go, let's go, let's gooooooo!" Feliciano flung an article of clothing at them each and fled the room, giggling wildly.

Arthur sat up, and pulled the bathing suit off his head. "The beach?" He'd asked, looking at Francis, who yawned widely, shrugging. They said nothing to each other as they prepared for the day and stumbled down the stairs. The entire hostel, plus Gilbert, was assembled outside, either looking thrilled or completely dead to the world.

" 'morning," Arthur said to Gilbert, "You're comin' too?"

The albino grinned at him, reaching into his bag and pulling out a small thermos and taking a swig. "Want some?"

Nodding, Arthur took the bottle, making sure to sniff the contents - he didn't need another mouthful of Gilbert's Cojones - and took a sip. He tasted the ice tea right before the bitter alcohol overpowered the sweetness. "Mmmm…" He muttered, smacking his lips, "That's good."

Gilbert winked at him. "You know it."

"Okay, let's get going." Ludwig's head poked out of the window of the white van they were gathered around, "We haven't got all day."

Tino, Berwald, Antonio and Gilbert - after screaming "SHOTGUN" at the top of his lungs - piled into the van, while the two Italian brothers were pulling on helmets. As Arthur pulled open the side of the van, he realized two people were missing. Roma and Francis appeared from behind the van, both talking in quiet voices. Francis was holding a basket that Arthur was sure he didn't have before, but before he could ask, the chef had run towards him, throwing an arm around his shoulder and hugging him tight. "Gooooooooood morning!" He crowed, rubbing his fist into a flailing Arthur's head, "Ready for the beach!?"

"Slightly…" The Englishman said, wrestling out of Roma's grip and rubbing his neck, "What's in the basket?"

Francis gave him an innocent look, as if he wasn't even holding a basket. "A surprise." He said, with the shadow of a wink, and climbed into the car. Grumbling, Arthur scrambled in after him, over Tino's lap and plopped down in the backseat.

With a small honk, Roma's tiny scooter pulled ahead. The van rumbled into life and puttered after the three Italians. Gilbert had his head hanging out the window, wolf-whistling at anything that looked his way. Arthur kept trying to open the basket, but Francis would have none of it, cradling it against his chest, flicking Arthur in the forehead.

After a quick pit stop at _coop_ - in which Arthur bought sunglasses and the one Enlish novel in the entire store _The Very Virile Viking_ - they finally arrived Ostina. Pristine sand stretched in every direction, disappearing into the turquoise sea. Cotton clouds drifted across the sky while people were littered around the beach.

Once Roma and Ludwig had set up their small base, everyone broke apart, starting the day. Tino and Berwald were already in the water, splashing each other playfully, while Lovino and Antonio were down the way, the Spaniard's hand on the Italian's hip. Near the water, Roma, Ludwig and Feliciano were building a small sandcastle and over at the small gelato stand, Gilbert and Francis were attempting to pick up chicks.

Meanwhile, Arthur had positioned himself under an umbrella and - after a brief two hour nap in the sunshine - was opening his book, shaking his head at the pantless man on the cover. "_Chapter 1. Autumn, the Norselands_," Arthur snorted, "_A.D 999. In days of old when men were…whatever… Magnus Ericsson was a simple man._"

_And Arthur Kirkland was a man bored out of his mind._ He thought, sighing heavily. Growing up in Britain had never really done much for Arthur's love of the beach. The sea was supposed to be rough and murky not bright and clear. Placing his book on his legs, he played with the edge of his sunglasses, glancing around, wondering which activity he was going to participate in besides reading about Vikings.

He spotted Francis' basket sitting only a few feet away. Glancing over his shoulder, making sure that they were still talking to the girls, he crawled over to the wicker hamper. With a trembling hand, he reached over and flipped the cover, but he didn't glance in right away. Did he really want to ruin this? He didn't even know what it was and he already felt guilty.

"I got you lemon~"

Francis was behind him, holding out a small cup of gelato. His smile clearly said '_take a look in that basket and I'll rip your face off_.' Arthur scurried back to his umbrella, acting as if nothing had happen. Taking a seat beside him, Francis passed over the cup, leaning back, his golden curls mixing with the sand as he stretched languidly. Arthur made sure to keep his eyes trained on anything but the slim body.

Just as he was reaching for his novel, he stopped suddenly. Francis had rolled on top of him, elbows on either side of Arthur's hips and he propped his chin on the palms of his hands. "You're not eating…" He said playfully, picking up the gelato, "C'mon, open up." He dipped the spoon into the ice and lifted it to Arthur's lips.

By now, Arthur could see every person on the beach staring at him - Antonio was using the distraction to pull Lovino closer without the Italian complaining. - "F-francis!" He stammered, his ears flushed a bright pink as he tried to wiggle out from under the Frenchman, but the elbow held him tight. "Get off me!"

"_Non._" Francis purred, "I'll show you how, _Sourcils_." He carefully placed the spoon in his mouth, pulling it out with a deliberate slowness that made something other than Arthur's face heat up. "Your turn~"

Sliding up Arthur's trembling body, Francis placed the cup of gelato aside and the Englishman noticed at that exact moment he wasn't about to be fed lemon. Long fingers pulled off his sunglasses, tossing them aside and gripping his chin.

"Good morning, Francis, Arthur." The two men froze, looking round. Roderich and Elizaveta were standing over them. Roderich was in a pair of royal purple shorts while Elizaveta had a bright green bikini on, a sarong casually tied around her hips. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything." He said, arching his elegant eyebrows.

Francis flopped off Arthur, lying on his stomach while Arthur waved awkwardly at the Austrian. "Good morning… What are you doing here?"

Wrapping her arm around Roderich's Elizaveta said, "We thought we'd get a walk before the rain comes back."

"RODDY! LIZZIE" Gilbert crashed into the pair, knocking Elizaveta's arms out of Roderich's and flinging his arms around their shoulders. "Fancy meetin' you here! I bet you came cause you could see my hunkness a mile away!" He grinned at them.

In a flash, the bartender was on the ground, Elizaveta's foot on his chest. "Are you alright dear?" She asked, smiling sweetly. Her consort nodded, adjusting his glasses. "And you, Gilbo, how are you doing?" She pushed her foot down on his chest, making him cough.

"Oy! Lizzie! Get off me!"

"What did I say about touching Roderich?"

"He's my cousin! I can do whatever- ack- Liz!"

"What did I say?"

"You said 'never, ever, ever, touch him, ever.' Now get off me!"

"Only if you say you're sorry."

Arthur and Francis had watched the entire exchange with slightly bemused looks. Clearly, this happened more often than 's floundering lips quickly turned into a smirk. "I'm not sorry and I can see right up your skirt." Elizaveta yelped, jumping away from the Prussian. Cackling wildly, Gilbert hopped to his feet and started sprinting to the ocean. Composing herself, the Hungarian pealed after him, shouting obscenities that made even Arthur gasp in shock.

After watching the chase for a few moments, Roderich turned back to Arthur. "I have all your documents prepared." He said calmly, as if his girlfriend was not attempting to drown his cousin in the sea, "You can come by and pick them up tomorrow."

"O-oh." Arthur stammered, watching Elizaveta stalk back towards them, dragging a half-alive Gilbert onto the beach and depositing him beside a fretting Feliciano and a disappointed Ludwig. "That's great. I-I'll see you tomorrow then." Roderich nodded and, taking Elizaveta's arm, continued their walk along the beach.

Arthur stared out at the horizon, not quite sure what to say, or if there was anything to say. That was it, his ticket home was all lined up and London was waiting. His fingers drew swirls in the sand. Did he want to go back? At all? He loved his country, but Rome… Rome had it's perks. Could he live in the hostel forever? Find a job, pay a monthly rent, live with F-

"_Sourcils…_" He glanced to his side to see Francis looking at his book, "_The Very Virile Viking…_" Francis said, shaking with silent laughter.

Glad it wasn't his to break the silence, Arthur snatched the book out of his hands. "It's the only one they had in English… That or _Great Expectations_ which I had enough of in school."

Francis laughed. "You are an odd one Arthur."

Arthur just scowled and opened his book. "Shall I read aloud?" He asked, in his most British voice.

The chuckles increased. "Why that would be most agreeable Sir. Kirkland." Francis said, shifting so that he rest against Arthur, "Please, do read."

"No! I'll read!" Gilbert was running towards them, apparently over his near-death experience, "Gimmie that!" He grabbed the book and before Arthur could stop him, began reading aloud.

"_Magnus Ericsson was a simple man. He loved the smell of fresh-turned dirt after springtime ploughing. He loved the feel of a soft woman under him in the bed furs… when engaged in another type of ploughing…_"

For hours Gilbert talked slowly the rest of their friends coming to sit around him. Every new character got a new voice and the bartender even acted out some of the scenes, managing to convince Berwald to play Magnus, which quickly earned him the title of 'the very virile Viking' much to the amusement of the others. The Thermos was passed around numerous times and when Francis stood and told Arthur to follow him, the Englishman was already a little wobbly on his feet.

The sun was setting, it's last beams of lights stretching over the ocean and painting the clouds and sky with fiery hues of crimson and tangerine while the encroaching night was bringing dusky shades of twilight and navy. As they walked away, they could still hear Gilbert practically shouting the part of the woman in a very explicit sex-scene with a very displeased Berwald. Arthur enjoyed the warm sand between his toes and the cool ocean that would wash over his feet before returning to the deep. A breeze played in the air, chasing the seagulls through the sky, urging them to retire in their nests for the night.

Francis walked beside him, his shirt undone and carrying the small basket. After a minute of questions, he had finally revealed that the surprise wasn't romantic in the slightest.

"So I bet you like long walks on the beach?" Arthur said, casting a glance at his comrade and giving him a quirked grin.

A blue eye peered at him and Francis stopped walking. "That and candlelit dinners." he said, winking, "Which reminds me…" He placed the basket down and rummaged in it, pulling out an old, grey blanket. With a flourish he laid it out on the sand, pulled out a tray covered in tinfoil, placing it on the blanket and stood back, admiring his work. "The surprise."

Arthur eyed the setup warily. "You said this wasn't romantic…"

"It isn't." Francis flopped down, patting the place beside him. Carefully, Arthur sat down, tucking his legs under himself. Reaching into the basket, Francis pulled out two plates, handing one to Arthur. "Are you ready?" He asked, quivering slightly in his excitement.

Arthur nodded slowly. Reaching forward, Francis pulled the tinfoil. "_Voilà_!" Underneath the shining covering was a small, slightly squished trifle. Arthur stared at it and, his mind a little muffled from the spiked ice tea, reached a finger, sticking it knuckle deep into the cake. Grinning at the appalled look on the Frenchman's face, he stuck it in his mouth, humming happily.

"Roma helped me bake it…" Francis said, his offended expression giving face to an exasperation shake of his head and a crooked smile, "Sorry it's a bit squished."

But Arthur was too concerned with eating more of his favourite treat than listening to Francis. Sighing Francis slapped the wiggling fingers away and reached into the basket, pulling out a fork. "At least eat like you're a civilised British man."

A quarter of the trifle was gone in fifteen minutes and Arthur leaned back, his head pleasantly warm and he set his fork aside. Francis was idly poking at one of the cherries that decorated the trifled, spearing it on his fork and plopping it into his mouth. "Oh, I've got another one more surprise." From inside the basket, he withdrew a long-necked bottle.

Arthur gasped, taking the bottle from Francis and starting at it. "Where did you get this?" He breathed, unable to keep himself from hugging the bottle tight. "Wine! Sweet wine!"

"Gilbert said he just got it in…" Francis said, shuffling closer to Arthur and examining the bottle, "Why? Is it special?"

"This is _Eiswein_, Ice Wine…" Arthur explained, his months of training kicking in despite his buzz, "It's terribly hard to make, not to mention almost impossible to find outside of Canada, Germany or speciality shops…" He paused, looking down at the magnum clutching to his chest, "Francis, you must've paid a fortune for this! I swear once I get back to London, I will pay you back every cent. I'm serious-"

Francis leaned over and kissed his cheek, effectively quieting him. "Just drink the wine and enjoy the food Arthur." Blushing, Arthur nodded dumbly, letting Francis pour them two glasses. "What shall we cheer to?" The Frenchman said, swirling the reddish-brown liquid around his glasses, watching it glint in the fading sunlight.

Arthur raised his glass. "To Vikings."

Laughing, Francis tapped their glasses together. "To Vikings."

They spent the rest of the night eating the trifle and slowly drinking their way through the _Eiswein_, Arthur admittedly drinking at least two more glasses than Francis. Eventually, they stumbled back to the main beach, Arthur piggybacked on Francis' back, shouting loudly about the time he was the greatest nation on earth (he seemed to think he was the British Empire.) Ludwig and Roma had a fire crackling and Gilbert was still reading the novel, albeit much quieter. The warmth from the fire and Francis, whom he was leaning against, the quiet whisper of the ocean coupled with Gilbert's slightly-accented voice and the rise and fall of the Frenchman's chest quickly had Arthur snoring, completely asleep.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I now have a French beta and an English one, WHICH IS KIND OF AWESOME. Ilu guys

_The Very Virile Viking_ (c) Sandra Hill (I shit you not, this novel was trufax)

And is anybody interested in doing an MSN-Hetalia RP or something? I usually play Arthur, but will really play anyone. I would love to do a more serious thing (War AUs, WWIII ect.), but casual stuff is cool too (I once rescued Matthew from a ship's galley where Francis and Arthur were doing it…) So hit me up for email if you're interested~


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Arthur awoke as the engine of the van died away. Warm breath was on his ear, slow and steady and when he tried to sit up, he found he couldn't move his fingers as they were knitted tightly with Francis'. He yawned, cheek brushing against the Frenchman's scruff. "We're holding hands," He muttered, smacking his lips.

"Yes," Francis said, rising from his seat into a crouch and gently tugging him out of the van, "You said we had to hold hands or I'd have to walk the plank."

Giggling lightly, Arthur leaned heavily on his companion, his feet not quite his own, although his head seemed oddly clear. "That sounds about right. We should become pirates," He said, pulling an imaginary sword from his hip and stabbing a drowsy-looking Berwald with his finger, earning a small grunt of annoyance from the Swed, "and sail all over the world, plundering ships and collecting booty."

The streetlight outside the hostel flickered slightly as Lovino fumbled with the keys for a moment, swearing in Italian before managing to jiggle the door open. Flicking on the lights, he wandered over to the desk and picked up the phone, his half-lidded eyes opening. "There's five messages…" Lovino said, "Who would possibly be-" He stopped as the phone began to ring. There was silence as everyone stared at it. Feliciano clung to Ludwig. "The number's 44 20…"

Antonio gasped. "It's coming from inside the _house_." Even Berwald seemed a little scared now, and when Arthur started laughing everyone jumped, Feliciano yelping loudly and buried his face into the mechanic's back. "That's a London number. Must but Alfred calling again to make sure I haven't died in the street." Arthur said, taking the phone from Lovino, "Go on, I can hang it up myself." He said, watching everyone slowly climb the stairs. Francis hung back, but Arthur waved a hand dismissively, "Hello?" "A-Arthur? I-is that you?" There was a dry sob and Arthur almost dropped the phone. "Alfred? Is that you?" Another choked and stuttered breath. "Are you… crying?

This was monumental. Arthur only had the pleasure of seeing Alfred cry twice. Once when his team lost in the Super Cup or whatever they called it (fake-football, in Arthur's opinion) in which Alfred had clung to Arthur, sobbing while he patted him on the back, reading a novel and drinking tea. The other time had been while watching _Titanic_ -which Arthur had been appalled to hear that the American had never seen. It had taken an hour for Alfred to calm down, and even then he was still susceptible to breaking-down at any moment.

"N-no!" Alfred sniffed, his voice worn and "I-I'm not!"

"What's wrong?"

"Iv… Ivan's left me!" Immediately Arthur felt surprised, ecstatic and then guilty for even feeling slightly happy at Alfred's current state. And _he_ was supposed to be the pushed aside one everyone was supposed to feel guilty for. "He didn't even say goodbye, he just got up and left!" Alfred said.

"Alfred, I-I'm sorry," Arthur said, quickly taking a seat in the armchair before his knees gave out from under him. He knew this was stupid, and that he shouldn't be talking to the American, but the small voice that he had worked so hard to shut up was starting to be heard again. "Just try and breateh okay?

The American's tone was suddenly dark. "He was a mistake Arthur!" He said, pleadingly, "I wish I'd never met him."

Knowing that the situation was only going to end badly, Arthur was just about to tell Alfred that he was sorry, but being in Rome and all he couldn't do much. "Alfr-"

Alfred cut him off. "I miss you Arthur."

For the second time that night, the Englishman almost dropped the phone. His jaw opened and closed numerous times, trying to string a cohesive sentence together. The little voice in his head was cheering loudly, telling him to confess the feelings of longing he'd suppressed since he left London. Frowning, he glared at his shoes, trying to ignore the clamour in his mind. "W-what?"

"I just… I mean… Ivan was…" Alfred took in a shuddering breath, his words becoming more assured, "a phase, but I don't, I don't think I want to spend my life with him."

Arthur let out a slow breath. "Alfred…" He said with a wary tone in his voice. The voice in his head was slowly being drowned out and the alcohol wasn't helping much either. Next time he was going to talk to his ex-fiancé, he made a mental note to not be lagered up on Cojones.

"Look, I know it's lame, but I want to start over Art." His heart skipped a beat, "And I get that you probably hate me, I mean, I'd hate me, but you know what I mean. Just… come back Arthur.

"Alfred…" He said, wondering if he was imagining the note of longing in the way he said the name.

There was a watery chuckle from the other side of the line. "It's so good to hear you again, your accent was something I missed." Alfred said.

"You're still in London…" The Englishman remarked, the voice suddenly much quieter. "You couldn't miss my accen-"

"That's not the point." Alfred said quickly, and apologetically, making Arthur feel guilty once again. "I'll… I'll be at our place for a while Art… waiting." He trailed off.

Arthur was sure Alfred wasn't aware of how sweet he could be. Either that, or his powers of manipulation were something to be in awe of. He shook his head from side to side, trying to clear his mind of the two conflicting voices. "I'll have to call you back Alfred. I just… I don't know. Goodbye." His finger twitched towards the 'end' button.

"Love ya, Art" Alfred said, "You know that, right?"

Arthur hung up the phone is response. His mind now filled with so noise it seemed no better than downtown London, he placed the phone back on the desk and slowly climbing the stairs barely noticing the wincing fourth step. Alfred wanted him to come back. _Alfred wanted him to come back._ Alfred F. Jones, the loveable, air-headed idiot, wanted him to come back. Sagging against the wall, he ran his hands over his face, growling and clutching his hair. No matter how many times he said it over in his head, it sounded too good to be true.

Opening the door to his room, he blinked up at the tall figure of Francis, almost surprised to find him there. Leaning forward, Arthur let his head sit against the white shirt. "Hello…" He said to the floor.

Outside, the rain had begun again, pounding against the glass, hard and fast, as if trying to make up for the rest of the day. Warm hands gripped his shoulders, guiding him into a standing position. "Arthur?" He said, giving the Englishman's arms a small squeeze, "What's wrong?"

Arthur reached out and grabbed Francis, pulling him into him close. Carefully, the Frenchman wrapped his arms around the younger man. Rubbing his head into the white shirt, Arthur wanted nothing more than to stay like this forever, just held, nothing asked of him, nothing needed of him. "Alfred called." He muttered, not quite sure why he was telling Francis this.

The hands fell from his back. "Oh." Francis said coldly, taking a step towards his bed, turning away from Arthur, leaving him to stare at the inky night. In a daze, he began to stumble towards the French doors, opening them and leaning against the balcony. Rain washed over him, clearing his muffled mind.

"And what did he say?" Francis asked.

Arthur didn't look at him. "He wants me back." He said, squinting through the sheets of rain. "Ivan left him."

When Francis next spoke, his voice seemed closer. "I see. That's… that's good news then, _oui_?"

Arthur gripped the railing, watching the water slide down his white knuckles. He shook slightly, breathing ragged, "That's the problem Francis…" He said, trying to keep his voice steady, "I don't know if I want to go back."

The voice was right behind him now. "Do you love him?"

Arthur closed his eyes. "W-what?"

"Do you love him?" Arthur turned and saw Francis standing right behind him, closing the French doors. Rain splattered against the glass, and Arthur tried to squeeze past the Frenchman, but froze as a hand slammed into one of the glass panels. "Do you love him Arthur?"

He was soaking now and he wasn't sure if the warm water sliding down his cheeks was the rain or something else. Francis' eyes bored into him and his mind seemed to have turned off. He held his fists tight against his chest. "I'm not sure-"

A hand crept onto his shoulder and pulled him into a strong kiss. It took Arthur a moment to realize exactly what was going on. Francis parted his lips, coaxing Arthur to do the same. He gripped Francis' shirt, eyes squeezing shut as he attempted to push him away. "Mnnwait…" Arthur tried to say but the minute his lips opened, Francis' tongue slipped between them. Thin hands slid around him, holding him close, sneaking in a quick grope, making Arthur gasp slightly. Just as he was relaxing into the kiss, Francis pulled back, staring him straight in the eye. Arthur blinked at him, trembling fingers still clutching at the thin fabric of his shirt, his mouth fumbling for words. "I-I…"

Francis placed his finger on Arthur's lips, smiling at him. "_Désolé Sourcils,_" He whispered, "But I couldn't hold back any longer."

The rain battered them as Arthur continued to clutch at the shirt, at a complete loss for words. Francis said nothing, now looking a little worried at the lack of response from the Englishman. "Good." Arthur said, suddenly, his fingers tightening around the fabric. This was it. "Because I'm to drunk to care." He leaned forward and kissed Francis.

Before he knew it, Arthur was on his bed and Francis was on top of him, hands tugging at the bottom of his shirt. He gasped, grabbing Francis' back as the Frenchman forced their mouths together. Every part of him yearned this but that damned voice in his head was preventing him from enjoying it.

_Too fast. Too fast. Alfred wants you back_. His head spun and his squeezed his eyes shut, bucking his hips lightly. _Stop! Alfred is waiting for you._ All he could feel was Francis on top of him, fingers sliding below his waistband. _You'll regret it in the morning Arthur. He's just a rebound._

"Wait!" He said sharply, pulling away from Francis, his hands scrabbling at his back, "Just… wait. Please…" Opening his eyes, he stared up at the Frenchman. The cheeks were flushed and the blond hair was out of its ponytail - probably Arthur's doing - hanging around the long face.

"I don't… I don't want this to be one of those things I regret the next day." He said truthfully, "I want to do this when I'm not wasted out of my mind…" Sitting up, Arthur slid his hands off Francis' back and grabbed hold of his chin and kissed him. Francis sat back, letting Arthur control the kiss. Reluctantly, the Englishman pulled back, still touching Francis' cheek. "And I don't want to make our neighbours suspicious. God knows they'd come in here just to check on us."

_There. That wasn't too hard, now was it?_ Francis smiled at him, sliding off his bed and clambering into his own, propping himself on an elbow. "_Je t'aime_." He whispered before turning away and letting his head fall to the pillow. _You could smother him with a pillow and no one would even know the mistake you made with him._

Arthur let out a long, quiet breath, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring out the French doors. The storm had lessened and he could see the halo of the moon glowing behind the tumbles of clouds. He waited, listening to Francis breathing eventually slow and turn into a low rumble. When he was sure he was asleep, he got to his feet and crept across their room, easing the door open. Sneaking down the stairs, he was relieved to find the registration desk unmanned. He grabbed the phone and with trembling fingers dialled the number to his brother's phone.

"Please pick up…" He whispered, "Please Matt…"

There was a click from the other side of the line followed by a slightly groggy, "Hello?"

"Oh thank god…"

Matthew's worried tone immediately woke up from the drowsy one. "Arthur? What's wrong?!" He asked, already upset, "Are you alright? You sound terrible."

Backing up, Arthur sank into the armchair. "I kissed him today Matt." He confessed, whispering it as if he was in a confessional.

"Who?" his brother asked, "What? Arthur what are you talking about?!" In the background, Arthur could make out two more bickering voices and the Canadian's attempts to make them quiet down.

Arthur took a deep breath, not caring if Matthew was listening or not. "I kissed him… right after Alfred called and said he wanted me back, I went and kissed Francis." The voices in the background stopped. "I didn't even think about it."

"You're drunk." Matthew said in his stern "parent" voice, which made Arthur feel even guiltier.

Did he really regret that now? _A mistake. Nothing more._ "No I'm not!" The Englishman said, whining slightly, "Matt, please… I'm so confused Matt…" He choked out, drawing his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. "What am I going to do?"

"I think all of this might've been a sign." Matthew said finally. "Remember what dad used to tell us? Everything happens for a reason." Arthur thought for a moment. Alfred's call. His documents being ready. Tino and Berwald leaving for the airport the next day. It couldn't all be coincidence, fate had a hand in everyone's lives and here she was, waving a bright, red flag. It was all a sign.

Arthur was going home.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Okay, so obviously Alfred wasn't done


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Francis awoke to the door of their room closing. Yawning widely, he glanced blearily around the room, noting idly that Arthur was not in his bed. Suspecting that he had just gotten up to go use the washroom, Francis rolled out of his bed, glancing outside. Clouds were gathering, but he wasn't bothered at all. He had finally done it, Arthur was his and he could not be happier. After weeks of waiting, his dream had finally been met. What had only started out as a crush was now a full-blown romance.

That is until he spotted something that wasn't quite right about the room and the realization made his blood run cold. All of Arthur's things were gone; the drawers he had used lay empty, the clothes that were spread haphazard around the room were gone and the leather suitcase Francis had thrown at his chest not two weeks ago had vanished.

"_Merde._" Francis ran to the door and wrenched it open and he ran down the stairs - the fourth one protesting loudly. Lovino was sitting at the front desk, eyes closed as he idly bopped his head along to the music issuing from his huge headphones. It took Francis a moment to figure out they were not some weird alien trying to eat the Italian's head.

He slammed his hand on the desk, making Lovino jump, opening his eyes to glare at the Frenchman. "Did Arthur just come through here?" Francis demanded, and when the Italian only frowned, pointing at his headphone, he growled, reaching over and lifting one of the headphones off. "Did Arthur just pass?" He shouted, releasing the earphone, watching it snap back against Lovino's head.

The Italian yelped, tears coming to his eyes as he slide the headphones off, holding a hand to his bright red ear. "What do I look like? A receptionist?" He snapped, delicately prodding the side of his head and wincing horribly. Francis didn't care.

"That's _exactly_ what you look like!" He said, hitting the desk with his hand again, "Where is Arthur?" Scowling, Lovino jerks his head at the door and put his headphones back on and turning away from the Frenchman, staring intently at the wall.

Hurrying over, Francis pulled the door open. Outside was a small black car and in the passenger's seat was Berwald, while near the trunk Arthur and Tino were loading their suitcases. The small Finnish man reached up and closed the back of the car, sliding around the side and climbing into the drivers seat. Arthur stepped onto the curb moving towards the door of the backseat, but froze when he saw Francis.

They stared at each other, Francis breathing hard, Arthur's face wary. "Where are you going?" Francis asked, unable to keep an accusatory tone out of his voice. He tucked his arms against his chest.

"Tino and Berwald have offered to pay for my flight." Arthur said quietly, straightening slightly, trying to appear taller than he really was, "Roderich got my papers from the embassy last night. I can finally go home." His voice caught slightly and he shifted awkwardly. Inside the car, Berwald and Tino were glancing at each other worriedly.

"What? You're leaving?" Francis asked. Thunder suddenly rumbled low in the sky, the clouds now hanging directly over them. Rain began to splatter down on them and lightning lanced across the sky.

"I can't stay here forever." Arthur said, looking up at the brooding sky, avoiding Francis hard gaze, "I have a job, a house, and a life back in London!" His voice jumped up in volume trying to speak over another long roll of thunder.

Francis shook his head, laughing. His blond hair flopped around his shoulders -he had neglected to put it into a ponytail. "You're just going to Alfred. I get it." He said, grinning at Arthur. He _knew_ it was too good to be true. He _knew_ getting Arthur drunk and kissing him was a bad idea. He _knew_ Arthur was bad news and he hated himself for still feeling for him.

Arthur's hand tightened on the car's handle. "Don't bring him into this."

"The only reason you're leaving is because he called." He said, still smiling, trying to hide his hurt, "Tell me the truth Arthur; you would've stayed if he hadn't called. But the minute he asks for you, you crawl back to him!" Francis finished, yelling the last five words.

Overhead, the storm intensified, the rain now hammering down on the pair. Tino was honking the horn but the dull blare was drowned out as the clouds exploded with sound and lighting tore across the sky.

"Don't fucking talk about him like that!" Arthur let go of the handle and stalked over to Francis, glaring at him, blond hair soaking, water streaming down his face. "Alfred needs me right now!"

Francis unfolded his arms, leaning forward so that he was eye-to-eye with the Englishman. He sneered at Arthur, doing his best to not pull the Englishman into a embrace and never let go. "He doesn't need you!"

Arthur pulled back, and lifting his hand, jabbing Francis' chest with his finger. "Yes he does!"

Francis stared down at the green eyes, his sneer faltering slightly. He couldn't play anymore. The hurt, the pain and feeling of hatred that Arthur had cause for playing with his heart made his face fall. "Well then he never would've let you go in the first place." He said quietly, reaching out a hand and touching Arthur's cheek.

For a moment, Arthur seemed to lean into the hand - but Francis was sure he was just imagining it. "I am going." He said, taking a step backwards, running a trembling hand through his hair, slicking it back, "Alfred needs me."

Francis left his hand hanging. "But what about you Arthur?" He asked, staring intently at Arthur, trying to communicate silently everything he was feeling at the moment. Everything he had felt. Everything he wanted to fell. "What do you need?"

Rain pounded down on them, Francis still reached for the Englishman and Arthur still looking lost. Neither of them noticed Antonio and Feliciano pressed up against the window of the hostel, their breath fogging the glass. The passenger's side window slowly rolled down and Tino poked his head out, leaning across Berwald. "Ready to go Arthur?"

Lightening flashed, illuminating Arthur's green eyes, making them impossible for Francis to read. He took one last look at Francis and grabbed the car handle. "Yeah, let's go." He opened the door and was half-inside before Francis' words stopped him.

"You're making a mistake Arthur!" Francis arm fell and balled into a fist.

Arthur paused, slowly pulling out of the car and fixing Francis with a cold glare. Behind him, lightning flashed across the sky and thunder rumbled, but the storm's rage could not muffle Arthur's words. "No. I made a mistake when I agreed to come to Rome." The door slammed shut and the car pulled away. Francis stared at it until it disappeared around a corner.

Shuddering, Francis crumpled to his knees, covering his face with his hands.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Sorry for the short chapter.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Francis really didn't know how he ended up at 'Five Meters' but he really didn't care. Arthur's words kept playing over and over in his head and he knew that he was going to go insane unless he did something. He suspected that the bright flashing sign (somewhat of a 'guiding star') had led him inside.

A few hours of crying, cursing the moment he had met Arthur and listening to Gilbert tell him that the Englishman was a pussy anyway and that he deserved a much hunkier man, Francis had finally calmed down and was rolling am empty glass between his hands- the remains of his third Gilbert's Cojones sloshing around.

"I just don't get it." He said for what felt like the dozenth time in the last hour alone, "I thought he really liked me…" Sighing heavily, he stopped rolling the glass.

Gilbert was sitting on his bar, dark plaid-pants hanging over the side as he fixed Francis a slightly exasperated look. "Look, Franny," The Frenchman scowled slightly at the nickname the albino had given him, "It's time to get over it. Artie was just a one-night stand that lasted two weeks, that's it!"

Slamming his glass on the bar, Francis fixed the Prussian with a slightly watery stare. "No!" He said, grabbing Gilbert's shirt arm, "It was more than that! Love! Love!" He released the shirt and let his head fall onto the counter.

"You really are from the country of love." Gilbert said, laughing nervously, sliding away from Francis. "Look, go fucking get him then. You're not going to do any good drooling on my bar. He's probably stuck at the airport in this weather." As the bartender spoke, thunder rumbled outside. "That's kinda loud…"

The door to _Five Meters_ suddenly opened. Lightening flashed behind a limping figure. Gilbert screamed, jumping into Francis' arms. The stranger lumbered inside and pulled back his hood, revealing Antonio's smiling face. "Hey," he said, lifting a hand in a friendly greeting, "You guys hugging? Can I join?" He approached them, holding his arms out.

"No! I'm not some fag like you two!" Gilbert said, pushing himself ff the Frenchman and folding his arms stubbornly over his chest. "Antonio, what the fuck are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off dancing or something?" He failed his arms around and shook his hips, which Francis expected was supposed to be dancing.

Antonio just chuckled, taking the seat beside Francis, wincing horribly. He caught the Frenchman's quirked eyebrow and shrugged, "My side is bruising," he pulled his shirt up, showing the purple splotch flourishing on his tanned side, "Lovino was still angry about the beach."

Shaking his head, Gilbert strode around the bar, reaching into the small fridge and pulled out three beers. "It's German," He said, slamming them in front of his patrons, "Drink it, or get the fuck of my bar."

Thinking it better to listen to the Prussian than to question him, Francis an Antonio took the bottles. They all paused for a moment, staring at each other awkwardly. Well, awkwardly as in Antonio and Gilbert were both staring at Francis as though expecting him to breakdown at any moment. The Frenchman raised his beer in a toast. "To lost love." He said.

The Spaniard grinned. "To hard love." He lifted his bottle, letting it hang beside Francis'. They two men glanced expectantly at the third members of their small trio, both smiling knowingly.

"To good beer." Gilbert said, tapping his bottle against the other two. They all pulled the drinks back and took long sips, the bartender lasting the longest without breath. The mood relaxed almost instantly and Francis found himself feeling a little less lonely in the company of the two other men.

He took another sip of his beer almost choking on it as Gilbert struck the bar with his empty bottle, fixing him with a beady stare. "Did you guys kiss?" He asked.

"_Oui_." Francis said dejectedly, hacking slightly.

Reaching into his pocket, Antonio pulled out a bill and passed it to the bartender, who kissed it. "I knew it." He said, waving it around like a small fan, "Didja do it too?"

"_Non_."

The money was quickly snatched back from the gloating Gilbert's hand. "I knew it Francis," Antonio said kindly, "You really did like him."

Francis was stuck between laughing and punching both of them. Instead, he took another long drink of his beer and asked for another. The night ended rather quickly after that, Francis finally succumbing to the effects of the alcohol. He was dragged, singing the French national anthem, from the bar by Antonio and down the road. Laughing, Antonio took the Frenchman up the stairs of the hostel and deposited him in the bed. The Spaniard wished him goodnight, but Francis had already passed out.

He woke up the next morning to a pounding head and the beginnings of a storm. Blearily, he stared out the window at the grey sky, musing the idea of going home today, but he had already paid for the room, might as well use it. Still keeping the blanket wrapped around his shoulder, Francis got out of bed and opened the French doors, letting the cool air soothe his headache.

Ludwig came in an hour later, a book in hand and a plate of breakfast in the other, while Feliciano was watching from the door, giving Francis a comforting smile. The German placed the food and book beside Francis and patted his shoulder awkwardly before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Carelessly, Francis picked at the fresh tomatoes, grabbing the book. The tomato stopped halfway to his mouth as he read the title. _Great Expectations._ He sighed, putting the tomato down and looking out to the foggy sea. Was this how Arthur felt when there was some small reminder of Alfred? No wonder he went back to the _Américain_ if this was how miserable he felt. He spent the rest of the day curled up in a ball, perusing the book and fell asleep on page 487.

"Francis… Francis, it's time to get up." A hand shook his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see Antonio crouching beside him. "C'mon, you have a plane to catch…" He sat up, rubbing his eyes. Lovino was also in the room, standing with his arms folded, cheeks puffing out slightly.

Francis got to his feet, shirking off the blankets and casting them onto the bed. "Thanks… I will be downstairs in _un moment._" Antonio nodded understandingly and left, grabbing Lovino's arm and guiding him away. He began to pick up his clothes, stuffing them into his dufflebag in a haphazard fashion before slumping out of the room, closing it without a second-look.

He walked down the stairs and found Feliciano and Ludwig in the lobby, the mechanic in the armchair, browsing the newspaper, and the Italian - looking more fretful than usual - standing with his back against the counter. They both looked up at the creaking fourth step and Feliciano hurried forward. "Do you really have to go Francis?" He asked, taking the Frenchman's free hand.

"I do…" He said, gently tugging his hand out of the young man's, "Everything is paid for, right?" The Italian nodded, "_C'est bon_. I will be going then. _Merci_ for everything Feliciano. Tell Antonio and Lovi I say goodbye." He moved to the door and gave the German a short nod before leaving.

Glancing back into the hostel, Francis watched Feliciano bend over and place a chaste kiss on Ludwig's nose. He stayed long enough to watch a blush bloom on the pale cheeks before starting down the street. Roma café was not as warm and inviting as he had remembered it to be. This could be due to the fact that he had expected Arthur to be here, waiting for him, waiting to apologize, waiting to take him back.

The chef walked out from the kitchen, wiping his large hands in his apron. "Francis?" He asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I just came to say goodbye." Francis said, shifting the strap of his dufflebag, "You've been so kind I thought I'd…" He trailed off.

Roma grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it. "It was nice meeting you Francis," He said kindly, "But where is your English friend?" Roma glanced around Francis, as though expecting Arthur to be hiding behind him, waiting to spring out and surprise him.

The Frenchman stepped back, running a hand through his messy hair. "He left before me." He said, voice crackling slightly, "Well, I'll see you around Roma." Francis opened the door to the restaurant and stepped outside onto the street.

"_Arrivederci_."

He closed the door and sighed heavily. He needed to get away from _Via Del Sol_ before he went crazy. Walking to a busier street, Francis hailed a taxi and scrambled inside. He almost gave instructions to the airport but hesitated, giving another location entirely.

The cab pulled up to the curb and Francis told him to wait, that he'd be only a few minutes, passing a few bills over before climbing out. Tourists were already gathered around the landmark and Francis pushed his way through them, standing at the edge of the fountain, fishing in his pocket grabbing a few coins.

He tossed one into the water. "One for a trip back to Rome." He said, watching it sink to the bottom of the clear water, "Like I'd ever come back here…"

Another coin. "One for new love." It hit the bottom. "Never said the love had to stick around."

He hesitated with the final coin before shrugging and more throwing it than tossing it. "One for marriage." He sniffed slightly, "Flights to Vegas are cheap this time of year…"

Moving back through the crowd, Francis climbed back into his taxi, telling the driver to go to the airport. He sighed, leaning forward and placing his head in his hands. The taxi pulled off the curb and trundled along the road.

It began to rain.

* * *

**Author's Note**

DOES ANYBODY KNOW WHO THAT GUY WAS IN THE LASTEST EPISODE IN THE LAST SCENE WITH FRANCE AND ENGLAND? Was it, like, Finland?


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Arthur stared out the passenger's side window of the small taxi. Rain beat endlessly against the glass and a heavy fog hung over the tall streets on London. As they trundled down the familiar road, Arthur watched the large townhouses roll by, trying to figure out why he felt so distant. It felt unbelievably wonderful to be back on English soil - Arthur had been hard-pressed not to make a stop to buy tea and biscuits - but there was something missing. He didn't have much time to contemplate as the cab pulled up to his house. Paying the driver, he stepped out onto the rainy street.

He took a moment to breath in the misty air before hurrying forward, fumbling with his keys which were - by the good grace of God - still in his jacket pocket, and opened the door. As he climbed the stairs, he felt his steps becoming heavier and as he reached the second landing, he had come to a complete stop.

The door to his apartment was only up another flight of stairs, he could see the brass '23' shining at him, and behind that was Alfred. Just fifteen steps, that was it, he'd have his whole life back. This thought brightened his murky feeling considerably and he almost ran up the last stairs, throwing the door open and announcing at the top of his lungs, "I'm back!"

There was a shuffling noise from the living room. Kicking his shoes off, Arthur slid into the den; fully expecting to see Alfred sprawled on the couch, a bowl of chips on his chest as he flipped through the channels, waiting for his lover to return.

Alfred was sprawled on the couch, but there was no bowl of chip on his chest and he seemed much more preoccupied with the man kissing him than the television. Sandy blond hair mixed with Alfred's golden locks as their mouth moved against each other. Arthur could only watch in silent horror as the large, pale hands slipped under Alfred's shirt, electing a small moan from the American.

It was that moan - response that only he, Arthur, was supposed to be able to coax out of Alfred - that prompted him to say, "Made up, have you?"

The large blond removed his mouth from Alfred's - which sounded a whole lot like a suction cup being pulled off a window - and sat up. "Who are you?" He asked in a heavily-accented voice. A heavily accented voice that Arthur had heard in the background of Alfred's calls. The dreaded Ivan.

"I'm Arthur bloody Kirkland." He said, folding his arms across his chest. He _knew_ it, Alfred was just pulling back in. "And you must be Ivan."

Alfred's head popped up from behind the couch, face flushed and hair ruffled. "Art!" he said in a cheery voice, as if he was not making out at the moment on _Arthur's_ couch in _Arthur's_ house in _Arthur's_ city no less, "You made it back! Look who came back too, Ivan!" He pinched the Russian' cheek.

Not sure what offended him more; the fact that Ivan was back and half-raping the American on his couch, or the way Alfred was not guilty at Arthur's arrival, but pleased, ecstatic even. That was the last straw. "Get out."

"Arthur, wait-" Alfred said, pushing Ivan off him standing. Behind him, the larger man wrapped his hands around Alfred's hips, placing his chin on top of the blond hair, "Just-"

Arthur unfolded his arms. "Get the fuck out." He said, closing his eyes, gesturing towards the now, "Before I fucking kill one of you." He heard Alfred whisper something to Ivan and felt them push by him and didn't open his eyes until the door closed. Once the footsteps had receded, Arthur sighed and leaned against the wall, rubbing his face, dumbstruck at his own stupidity. He stumbled into the living room and, after giving the couch a disgusted look for betraying him, and sat down in his favourite armchair.

He should've known. His gut had told him the minute he had picked up the phone that it sounded too good to be to true, but he had ignored it. And now look, he was single living alone in downtown London in a far too-big apartment. He exhaled deeply, sitting back in his chair, forcing his eyes closed, wishing the world away. His thoughts immediately turned to Rome. To the _Dolce Vita_. To Franc-

"Let me at least try to explain." A hand grabbed his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. The voice was all-too familiar and he really wanted nothing more than to pretend he had not heard the American, but instead he looked up, catching the worried blue eyes with his.

"I don't even know why I came back." Arthur said, slapping the hand away. "I was having the best fucking time of my life in Rome but one call from you and I come crawling back…" He laughed, looking down into his lap, choking slightly, willing himself not to breakdown in front of his ex-lover.

"Arthur, I-"

"No." Arthur looked up again. Alfred was staring at him, blue eyes guilty as he smiled weakly. He felt his gut twist, stuck between bursting into tears and giving the American a good punch in the bracket. "I don't need your pity Alfred." He said quietly, trying to get to his feet, but Alfred kept a hold on his shoulder, pushing him into the chair.

"I still love you Arthur." He felt his heart freeze. Searching Alfred's face for any hint of a lie, but it was innocent and happy as always. "I really do." He leaned closer, letting their foreheads brush for a moment before pulling back, to gauge the Englishman's reaction, Arthur supposed. His cursed his cheeks for flushing.

"I bet." He said, trying to glare up at Alfred, but feeling his face not quite contracting properly. He could keep about himself half-drunk and lustful with the Frenchman, but the moment he was hurt, sober and thinking completely straight with Alfred, he was a blubbering mess. Was there _any_ justice in the world?

Alfred fixed him with an almost unbelievably serious look. "No, really." He said, squeezing Arthur's shoulder, "Ivan was just something to get over _us_." As he said the word, Arthur felt his heart skip a beat and he was finding it hard to swallow. "I'll break-up with him right here and now if you'll stay." There was nothing but pure honesty in Alfred, and Arthur wanted nothing to do with it.

"Alfr-" The name was cut off as Alfred's lips covered his. Instinctively, he closed his eyes, leaning forward and opening his mouth, letting their tongues brush. Jolts of pleasure ran up his spine, making him breath in sharply. The sweet smell of fresh strawberries and charred meat filled him and he sighed from the familiarity. As Alfred's hand gently pushed him into the chair, pulling at his tie, Arthur's foot stretched out, hitting his suitcase. It popped upon and they broke apart at the noise.

Peering around Alfred, Arthur saw that his belongings were now sprawled over the floor. Alfred began kissing his neck, obviously intent on continuing, but Arthur's eyes had fallen upon another item that had burst out of his bag. A painful lump formed in his throat. What had he done for all of this?

A black turtleneck.

Perhaps thrown in during haphazard escape from Rome, or perhaps a sign from God telling him to get his head out of his own arse, stop being such a bloody dolt and get the fuck back to Rome. Arthur suddenly stood up, pushing Alfred off him. The American stared nonplussed at him. "Art? What's wrong?" He asked, reaching out a hand, touching Arthur's cheek, but the Englishman stepped away from the gesture, the calluses feeling nothing like the silky skin he yearned for.

"I have to go." Arthur said and went about stuffing all his clothing back into his case and closing it. This was it, no more Alfred, no more playing around, no more lying to himself and ignoring his own feelings. He started towards the door but stopped as Alfred bounded over the couch, standing between him and the hall leading to the front door.

"You can't be serious, I just confessed to loving you!" He said, placing one hand on his hip as the other ran through his hair. Fixing Arthur with disbelieving and slightly irritated look, he waited for an answer.

The green eyes looked slightly dazed. "Right. Love. I… I think I get it." Alfred smiled and shuffled forward; ready to pull the smaller man into a hug. Arthur sidestepped his arms, raising a bushy brow. Suddenly the American was the exact same as the first time they had met, annoying, boisterous and everything he hated. "Now, get out of my fucking apartment."

"Arthur?" Alfred asked, voice trembling slightly. He was trying to pull the 'you're hurting me Arthur' act but the want to see Francis again was overpowering any guilt he may have felt. "Please, don't leave…"

The British man pushed by him, slipping his shoes on and opening the door. He was unsurprised to find Ivan standing there. He glared up at the doleful violet eyes, all feelings jealousy suddenly gone. Arthur turned around, looking at Alfred. "And take your friend with you." He said, stepping into the hall and rushed down the stairs, back into the rain.

Throwing out a hand, he hailed and taxi and jumped inside, pulling the door shut with a bang. The driver turned around in his seat, "Where to?" He asked.

"Heathrow Airport as fast as you can please." Arthur said, slightly breathless. The cab pulled away and he turned around just in time to see two dark figures hurry out of his building, both jacketless.

The rain started to pour harder and Arthur could only smile.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Arthur was never a fan of planes. He loved long flights, as they were just an excuse for an eight-hour nap, but the short ones, where there's barely enough time for a complimentary drink and cookies, be loathed those ones.

Not to mention he was seated with, perhaps, the worst seat partner ever. He smelled funny and kept hitting on the stewardess (which was _not_ reminding him of Francis) in a loud and accented voice. The Englishman just tried to focus on the novel he had picked up at the airport shop; another bad romance, but not near the terror of _The Very Virile Viking_.

"So why are you going to Rome?" Arthur looked up, finally getting a good look at the man beside him. He was heavy-set and his tanned skin was a deep chocolaty brown. His dark hair, almost black but not quite, was in a delicate crown of dreadlocks, held back by a large band. He seemed friendly despite his large countenance and booming voice.

Arthur put down his novel down and cleared his throat. "I… am meeting someone there. I have to apologize."

The man chuckled. "A girlfriend or wife?" He caught Arthur's small flush and awkward shift, "Ah, don't worry, I gotcha. So, you're going to apologize to him? What did you mess up?"

"I…" Arthur took a sip of the complimentary watered-down cranberry juice, and considered spewing lies about missing a six-month anniversary and how his lover had escaped to their villa in Italy, but in the end, he thought the truth might be better, "I really fucked up, actually." For the remaining fifteen minutes of the flight, during descent and taxiing into _Leonardo da Vinci_ -a silly name for an airport in Arthur's opinion - he had only barely finished his story once they had pulled into their gate.

Even though they had been given the okay to stand up and begin unloading, the large man just stared at Arthur, his lips twitching in a somewhat amused fashion. "I'm sorry…" Arthur mumbled, scratching his neck, "I didn't mean to unload on you like that…"

"Haha, don't worry about it." A chocolate eye winked at him and the man hoisted himself out of his seat and began taking his bag out of the overhead compartment, his size effectively trapping the rest of the plane behind him in the narrow aisle, "You sounded like you needed it." He passed Arthur the small briefcase and helped the Englishman out of his seat.

Despite spending two weeks in the Italian capital, Arthur still had yet to get a handle on the language. This, coupled with the fact that he could barely form a cohesive thought due to reeling from Alfred and his need to find Francis, rendered him basically helpless in the city. Luckily, Ramon Carlos-Famosa Fernández García, Ray to friends and lost Englishmen, took pity on Arthur and guided him through the busy airport and out into the rainy street. As they waited for a taxi, Arthur watched Ray pull out a large cigar, lighting it with an intricately carved Zippo.

"I hope you find him." Ray said, raising a large hand, hailing a small taxi, "Good luck Arthur." He opened the door and shepherded Arthur inside, waving enthusiastically as the cab pulled away from the airport. Arthur glanced out the back window and waved until the man was out of sight.

After giving hurried instruction to the hostel, Arthur kept his face against the glass, staring out into the city, as if expecting to see Francis staring on the side of the road. The rain and the speed made it impossible to see, but he kept looking anyway. Slowing down as they reached _Via Del Sol_, Arthur was already out of the cab before it had come to a complete stop, shoving a few pounds into the confused driver's hand.

The little bell tinkled overhead as he burst through the door into the lobby. There was silence save for a tiny mewl that came from the reception desk. Looking round, he noticed a small brown ball of fur with amber eyes staring at him. He frowned at it, and it purred, licking its paw and rubbing behind it's ear. For a moment, Arthur forgot why he was there.

"Ah! Cappelletti!" Feliciano appeared from behind a small door beside the reception desk. "There you are. I will not be playing hide-and-seek with you again." He chided, picking up the small kitten and rubbing it against his cheek.

Arthur cleared his throat and the Italian looked around, jumping in surprise when he caught sight of the Englishman. "Arthur?" He asked, setting the kitten back onto the desk, "What are you doing back here? You d-don't want a refund, do you?"

"Of course not!" Arthur said quickly, half of him wanting the rush upstairs, the other wanting to keep with a gentleman-like air. "I was wondering if Francis was still here."

He stopped. What if Francis _wasn't_ here? If he had missed him? His next swallow barely managed to get down. He gripped the desk and Feliciano's hazel eyes didn't miss the fingers' tightening on the wood. The Italian reached out and gently patted Cappelletti's head. "I'm sorry Arthur," fingernails dug into the wood, "He checked out his morning. He h-had to catch a plane."

"Where!?' Arthur asked desperately, "Please Feliciano, do you know?"

"France. He went back to home." Arthur felt like crying, screaming and running all at once. Too bad Feliciano had already burst into tears. "O-Oh Arthur, I-I'm so sorry!" He bawled, running around the desk, throwing his arms around the Englishman. "Y-You loved him! A-and no-ow he's g-goooooooone."

Patting Feliciano's back Arthur rolled his eyes. It was like nothing had ever happened, like he could return to the hostel and act as though nothing had ever happened. 'Like' being the operative word. Without the Frenchman, a big piece was missing. "Feliciano, please calm down." He pleaded as the dampness began to soak into his shoulder.

"I-I'm sorry." The Italian pulled back, wiping his eyes on his sleeves, "I…" He sniffed apparently lost for words. At the desk, the kitten purred in concern, trying to pat Feliciano's hand. Smiling down at the cat, Italy picked up the small animal, cuddling it to his chest.

"Don't worry Feliciano…" Arthur said, slowly moving back towards the door, "I'll see you around, okay?" And, without waiting for Feliciano's answer, he exited the hostel.

He started walking. Not sure where he was going or why he so urgently needed to just _get away_, he hurried through back alleys and main streets, ignoring the people. Rain fell from the clouds and he could only weakly lift his head, wondering if the world could get anymore platitudinous. The square he was standing in was familiar and the chapel stood out against the cloudy sky, an ominous sanctuary. At least the creepy old nun was gone.

"I'm such an idiot." He said finally, sitting down on the steps of the church, leaning his head back, watching the water fall around him. He squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "Francis…"

Of course the Frenchman had returned to Paris, what did he have left in Rome besides memories? Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand over his eye. He would find Francis again… the man was a popstar for God's sake, he probably had pages and pages of fansites. But what would he do if he even managed to find the proper number? What would he say?

"Hi, Francis? It's Arthur, that guy you took to Rome, remember?" The words were supposed to stay inside his mouth, but Arthur let them spill out anyway, the falsely bright tone biting at his ears, "Yeah, I'm sorry about abandoning you for my ex-boyfriend… but I'm back now! Isn't that just fan-fucking-tastic?" He let out a choked sob, getting to his feet.

He could find where Francis lived, he mused kicking a stone with his foot, sighing as the rain ran over his burning face. Visit Paris; actually appreciate the wine, but would it even matter? He doubted the Frenchman would even want to set eyes on him. Those blue eyes…

It had been love. Arthur knew that now and it didn't make him feel any better.

"You're going to get soaked if you keep standing in the rain."

Not believing his ears, Arthur turned around. Francis was standing beside the fountain, a red umbrella held casually over his head. The usual liveliness seemed gone from his slightly slumped form. Arthur quickly wiped his cheeks on his wet sleeve hoping to disguise his tears, not that there was much need. He was almost surprised to see Francis still standing there when he lowered his arm.

"What…" He hesitated, voice breaking. Francis' eyes bored into him, half-lidded and cool. "Your plane to Paris?" He had to know why Francis was here. He had to make sure he wasn't still on the plane, dreaming and would wake to find Francis long gone from the city. This couldn't be real.

Long fingers swept through the tangled blond hair, pushing it off his face. Arthur's breath hitched slightly. He forgot how natural Francis looked. "Cancelled because of the weather," the Frenchman said, gesturing around the square. "But it's been rescheduled."

The pause was only made worse by the way Arthur saw Francis quickly brushing his eye with a long finger. "Um." He cleared his throat, "C-can't it wait? I really need to talk to you Francis."

"_Non,_ I am sorry Arthur but I do need to return to Paris." Francis paused pointedly, "I have a life I need to attend to,"

Arthur hung his head. "Francis, please… I just want to talk. I just want to explai-"

"I have a cab to call." Francis cut across him, making Arthur look up just in time to see Francis turn his head away, palm rubbing against his cheek. Or maybe he was just imagining it. "_Au revoir_, Arthur."

Francis started to walk away from him. No look back, no slowness in his step, no hesitation. Francis was finished, ready to forget everything they had shared, ready to continue his life as though nothing had every happened, ready to go on as if he had never fallen in love.

Arthur wasn't. He was done pretending. He was done acting. He was done needing.

"Wait!" He called, running after Francis' retreating form.

Francis turned and Arthur grabbed his coat and kissed him. The green eyes were shut as he marvelled at the warmth of the Frenchman's body. Getting over his initial surprise, Francis dropped the umbrella and wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist. The rain pounded them as they continued to kiss; only breaking once they was no air left in their lungs.

They stood panting, the downpour already soaking through their clothes, cool against flushed skin. Arthur opened his eyes, hoping that he would see Francis in his arms and not the man in the seat beside him on the airplane. Blue eyes twinkled down at him and even through the dampness he could still identify the faint scent of lilacs. "Francis…" He breathed, burying his face into the Frenchman's neck, "I'm so sorry. I know what I did was despicable and utterly bastard-like behaviour worthy of Gilbert himself but-"

He stopped as the arms relaxed around his waist and he looked up reluctantly, scared to see rejection in the Frenchman's eyes. Instead, they shined at him as the long fingers cupped the Englishman's face and kissed him passionately. "_Je t'aime _Arthur." He breathed, pulling back so-slightly that the words were more felt than heard. "So much."

Arthur leaned forward and whispered something quietly in the Frenchman's ear, blushing slightly.

"Whatever you say," Francis smiled, "_Soucils._"

* * *

**Author's Note**

Uh Feli's got a cat because Greece gave him one. *See "Ordinary"*

*bursts into tears*

You guys have made this such a pleasure to write... I cannot thank you enough for every single comment, fanart and just general awesomeness you have given me. Starting out I was so worried... France/UK and an AU? Who would read that? But you guys... you really liked it... ;A; Nothing so special has ever happened to me before (and I kid you not, I was blown away with the sheer number of responses). _Two Weeks of Sunshine_ will always be close to my heart and just... oh fuck it, I love you guys. -hugs for everyone-

I'm kinda venting here because the next chapter is really just an epilogue I wanted to write and I figured an Author's Note after it kinda ruin it. I don't know. But seriously, thank you all. You really helped me remember what writing was about and for that, I will always be in your debt.

Keep smilin' on those rainy days. Never know who you might meet~


	17. Chapter 17

fff- I said I wouldn't talk, but I will anyway. The epilogue was probably one of the harder chapters to write. Never wanting _Two Weeks_ to end aside, I kept playing with where the ending would occur. London, so there would be a final confrontation between Al, Art and Francis? Paris, so there would be much fluff and wine? Or Rome, where the entire story had taken place?

On reflection, I realized that this story was really made by the side-characters… without the Rome Crew, the story wouldn't have been half as interesting. So, out of respect for the people that really helped, and hindered at times, Francis and Arthur's relationship, I decided on Rome.

* * *

**Chapter 17**

Francis would always wonder what had made him approach Arthur. What had compelled him to taking the man off of the street? What had made him stop and offer aid instead of walking by? What about the strange man yelling in the middle of road was so appealing? His mother had always called him an odd one. Too nice, too charming and too sly for his own good, but he always laughed, kissing her cheek before hurrying off and one of the many dates he had while in high school.

Perhaps it was the fact that he looked almost as helpless as Francis had felt -lost between girlfriend/boyfriends and in state of constant monotony- that made him walk over, and whisk the Englishman away, only to find that Arthur Kirkland was rude, unpleasant, snarky and _British_. And despite this, Francis still asked him to come with him to Rome, perhaps not the smartest move at the time, but by the end of their journey he felt it was the best decision he had ever made.

After making it to the hostel and realizing that Italians were perhaps some of the friendliest, if not oddest, people on the face of the planet, Francis was lucky enough to see another side of Arthur as they ate am unexpectedly delicious pasta dinner. A blush when his tiramisù was eaten, a hesitation to talk and an utter social ineptitude that was almost charming in its clumsiness. The Brit was shy and Francis almost marvelled at how quickly he could go from loud and angry to quiet and subdued. It only piqued his interest further, making Arthur suddenly seem like more than just a two-week fling.

The next day, Francis was even more thrown by Arthur's actions. After lending him the turtleneck and ending up at the laundromat, Francis felt an unexpected roar in the pit of his gut as he watched Arthur chat up a young lady. As he watched them talk, Arthur subtly moving closer, the young woman all smiles Francis was on his feet, pulling them apart, ruining the moment. During the meeting with the Austrian banker, he could only trying to figure out what had possessed him to do such a thing. And, just as Arthur was saying how they couldn't share a bed, he realized that it was the emotion he had only heard of before this. Jealousy, and it was every bit as unpleasant as it was made out to be.

Just when he was sure he had the Englishman figured out, he went off and got drunk and Francis had to deal with yet another wave of jealousy when he had seen Gilbert on top of Arthur. That night, as he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, slightly dried hair clinging to his face he found that he could only think of the Englishman lying in the bed next to his. Was Arthur trying to be this tempting, or was it all ready just the way the Brit was? Either way, Francis found that he felt rather un-rested that morning when he agreed to accompany Roma down to the docks.

He really didn't care about Alfred, but when Arthur told his story, which such kindness, such tenderness and such _longing_ in his voice, Francis couldn't help but listen and wonder vaguely if Arthur would ever talk about _him_ like that. Filled with a sudden, inexplicable urge to give the Englishman a reason to talk about him like that, Francis found himself cuddled with Arthur under the safety of a chapel as the rain poured down around them.

It was at this point that Francis realized he had fallen for Arthur. The next few days seemed so blissful and he barely remembers the tango, the Swedish and Finnish guests and the trip to the beach Finally, he gets over his fear and the constant parade of distractions and interruptions and kisses Arthur and for once he actually realizes what it feels like to kiss someone you truly love. This memory, of Arthur's small and soggy form, pressed against his, returning the kiss, eagerly even, remains close to his heart, never to be forgotten, even if old age should claim the rest of his mind.

But the memories become quickly raw and emotional as he watches Arthur slam the car door shut and drive away leaving words that still haunt Francis when he finds his mind wandering. Two men at a bar offer a small comfort and for once he actually realizes what it feels like to have your heart broken by someone you truly love. His mood does not improve when the old lady at the airport tells him his flight had been delayed for another six hours. His hope has abandoned him by now, seeking refuge away from the storm.

And doesn't hesitate as he catches sight of Arthur -_his _Arthur by now he should think - standing in the rain. They exchange what barbarians may consider pleasantries and, ignoring his own heart, Francis tells the Englishman goodbye. He doesn't quite understand why he says it, but the way Arthur's face falls gives him both great pleasure and pain at once. Before he can even begin to walk away, the Brit calls out for him and they kiss for the second time and Francis believes that it is perhaps the best kiss he has ever shared with someone.

And after all that. The teasing, the heartbreak, the realization and the confession, Francis still found himself walking in on Arthur standing in the middle of their kitchen, looking positively adorable in a red apron, as he attempted to cook.

"Add how many cups of flour?" Arthur called into the living room, poking his head around the corner, eyebrows furrowed as he attempted to locate the Frenchman. In his hands he held a bowl, a white, lumpy substance inside with a whisk sitting in it.

Francis sidled into the roon, holding two paper bags in his arms. "_Non, non, mon cher._ There is no flour in tiramisu, remember?"

Arthur pulled a face. "It has bread in it."

Sliding the bags on to the counter, Francis walked over, placing a kiss on Arthur's nose. "Exactly. You don't need to add more." He started unpacking the bags as Arthur sighed, re-reading the recipe for what felt like the hundredth time. You'd think that after ten failed attempts he'd at least _know_ what the recipe required. Hopefully today - it was his birthday after all - he'd get it right.

As Arthur opened the pack of ladyfingers, he listened to Francis move around the kitchen, putting the groceries away. Since Francis did most of the cooking, Arthur usually opted out of joining him on his jaunts down to the shop instead trying to help Roderich organize the numerous businesses and accounts that _Via Del Sol_ seemed to get. "You'll never guess who I saw at the store today," Francis said, closing the door the pantry and leaning against the counter.

Arthur didn't look at him, focusing on placing the ladyfingers side-by-side. "Oh yeah?" He said, listening with only half an ear. When there wasn't any answer, he looked up from the task at hand. Francis was gone, but another blond was standing in the kitchen instead. Arthur gasped, dropping a ladyfinger onto the floor. "Matthew!?"

His younger brother smiled, quirking his head to the side and closing his eyes guiltily as he had done for his entire life. "Surprise?" He said weakly before he was engulfed in a hug from Arthur.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur demanded, holding him at arms length. Matthew had grown since he had last seen him, but his big blue eyes had barely changed since their childhood. Here was expecting Feliciano or Ludwig, but not his brother. He would have to thank the Frenchman later tonight.

Matthew looked slightly insulted. "You think I'd miss my brother's birthday?" He said, pushing his glasses up his nose, baggy sleeves hiding most of his hand.

Before Arthur could ask more questions, a voice he had only heard in his wildest nightmares rang through the house. "Oh my god, like, don't we get, like, hugs too?"

Groaning, the Englishman stared at the Canadian. "Matthew you didn't…" he said pleadingly, clutching his brother's arm.

"Sorry… they said they would come with or without me. Sorry?" He repeated, shrugging apologetically.

Before Arthur could flee, Toris and Felix had appeared, the Pole in a dress, his blond hair held back by a small barrette and the Lithuanian standing behind him, grinning nervously and waving. "Hello Arthur." Toris said, stepping forward and offering his hand, "It's good to see you."

Arthur took the hand, shaking it slowly, eyes still flickering to Felix, waiting for a sign to jump back and avoid contact, but the blond seemed completely all right with bothering Matthew, fussing about his hair. "I'm glad _you_ came." Arthur said, putting particular emphasis on the word. "Francis, this is Toris, he works with Matthew." The Englishman waved his partner over.

"I hope, like, you haven't, like, totally forgotten me Arthur!" Apparently Felix had finished fixing the Canadian's hair (it now had a small red barrette in it that matched the shade of his brother's cheeks perfectly) and was now hurrying over to Arthur, arms outstretched, intending to tackle-hug him. The Brit could only exchange a worried look with Francis - who was looking _amused_ of all things - before preparing himself for the hug.

There was a knock at the door and, with an amount of dexterity he didn't even know he possessed, Arthur slid by Felix, avoiding the hug. As he listened to Toris catch the Pole, Arthur opened the door, panting slightly. Eight people were gathered in the door and the minute he opened it, a wall of sound assaulted him.

"I brought oysters!"

"Idiot bastard! It's supposed to be a surprise for Arthur!"

"Gilbert? I dearly hope you aren't grabbing my husband's ass."

"Why Lizzie? 'Cause you don't have your camera on you?"

"If you two are going to be like this all night, I'm leaving."

"Roderich, you can't leave, it's Arthur's birthday."

"Ve~ Ludwig is right Roderich! We are here for Arthur."

Arthur could help but smile, listening to the conversations breeze by as the guests walked into the house, their pleasant babble filling the background with a low hum. He watched Francis introduce Toris, Felix and Matthew to the rest of them, glad to see how accepting the Romans were to the scientists.

A hand suddenly clamped his back enthusiastically, almost sending him toppling. "The birthday boy!" Roma boomed, closing the door behind him. In one hand, he held a small tray covered in tinfoil.

"What's this?" Arthur said, recovering reaching out a hand and lifting the aluminium.

"Tiramisù," Roma said with a small wink, "In case you screw up." And despite the insult to his cooking, the Englishman couldn't help but smile.

The small home was soon filled with sound and laughter. Gilbert had already set out getting everyone drinks and was currently deep in conversation with Felix and a blushing Matthew. The crossdresser and bartender seemed to be taking in turn to hit on the young Canadian.

Across the room, Ludwig was keeping an eye on the three, making sure things didn't get to out of hand while beside him, Feliciano was having his hair stroked and braided by a very pleased looked Elizaveta. Her husband just shook his head in disapproval, turning back to the game of poker he was currently embroiled in with Lovino, Antonio and Ray (who was apparently a long lost cousin of the Spaniard's)

Toris and Francis were standing near the grand piano - Francis had it brought all the way from Paris. Apparently he still needed to express himself musically; Arthur just thought it was silly - the Frenchman's blue eyes flicking to Arthur's every few minutes, giving him quiet smiles and half winks. It was making it very hard to finish the tiramisu and Roma ended up making most of it in the end, also preparing the rest of dinner. "It's no problem." The chef has said in response to Arthur's stuttered promises to pay him, pouring noodles into a tall pot, "I love cooking for people Arthur, that's why I own a restaurant." And Arthur found he really couldn't argue when the Italian was making such a delicious smelling sauce.

Dinner was quickly served and everyone squished around the small table, the sound even louder than before as people talked over one and other. Even Arthur found himself locked in a fierce debate with Antonio about the Spanish Inquisition and it's legitimacy, finding that the tanned man actually knew quite a fair amount. The entire time, Francis held Arthur's hand under the table, smiling as he sipped his wine.

Arthur blushed furiously when Roma brought out the dessert, singing happy birthday in Italian. The others soon joined in - each in their respective languages - and it became a garbled mess of off tune notes and words the Englishman couldn't even hope to understand, which only made it all the more special.

"Make a wish _mon cher_." Francis whispered into his ear as the candle flickered up at him. The eyes of everyone at the table were on him but he could only see Francis' blue ones. Smiling, he took a deep breath and exhaled, managing to extinguish every flame much to the thrill of the guests, who all burst into cheers. As the tiramisu was passed around and Gilbert refilled everyone's drinks, Francis leaned close to Arthur's ear again. "What did you wish for?" He asked quietly.

Turning his head, Arthur kissed Francis softly. "Just that." He answered simply, beginning to eat the tiramisu, pretending to not notice the pink tinge to the Frenchman's cheeks. Returning to his own dessert, Francis squeezed Arthur's hand under the table, their rings brushing against one and other for a moment.

A few hours later, as the sun was beginning to set and after a few more rounds of drinks and a particularly rousing game of Monopoly (Lovino managed to win without cheating for the first time in his life, but that could've been due entirely to the fact that he was drunk out of his mind) Ludwig and Ray began shepherding their drunken lot out of the house. Toris, meanwhile, was carrying a passed-out Felix up the stairs to the guest rooms while a yawning Matthew clung to his shirt, muttering a sleepy goodnight to his brother. Soon the house was quiet again and Arthur sighed, feeling unexpectedly old.

Grunting slightly, he got to his feet, stretching. Beside him, Francis was lazily finishing his glass of wine, his eyes slightly glassy. Before he could suggest they go to bed, Arthur caught sight of the clouds rolling over the sky. Sighing, he approached the window, touching the glass.

"What's wrong Arthur?" Francis asked, sneaking up behind him and wrapping his arms around Arthur's hips. Unconsciously, Arthur reached down with his hands, gently touching Francis as lips pressed against his neck. He said nothing for a few minutes, enjoying the way their reflections seemed to fit so perfectly around each other.

"It looks like rain." He muttered quietly.

"I don't know _Sourcils._" Francis said, grinning at the Englishman, "I've always found sunshine to be quite dull."

_fin_


	18. SUPER SPECIAL BONUS SMUT CHAPTER

Okay, fucking oodles of thanks to france_b (lj) for being a perv with me and RPing smut almost as often as fluff. She basically co-wrote this. Also the reason I know have the urge to write Francis with a French accent orz;; so missing 'h's are purposeful my good readers~

Takes place before the epilogue but after the last chapter.

**OKAY, SO IT'S SMUT. THIS CHAPTER HAS AN 'M' RATING. IF YOU'RE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH IT, DON'T READ.**

* * *

**_First_**

Arthur almost drops the ring.

This is the first thing he does on the first night out with Francis on their first official date of their first time together in Paris. It is not the first time Arthur blushes, or stutters or makes a fool of himself in front of the Frenchman, but it certainly stings as much as it did the first time. Perhaps, with time, he would one day enjoy the way his cheeks flushed a cheery red, but he suspects that it will only come with time.

He watches Francis bend over, pale hand extending from the sleeve of a black dress shirt, carefully picking up the golden band, blowing on it and rubbing it on his pants so that it that the dull gold gleams once again. The smile the Frenchman gives him it such a mixture of exasperation and pure joy that Arthur can't help but bow his head in shame and pleasure. "Per'aps we will try again, _non_?" He says, passing the ring to the Brit.

Arthur gets to his knees as Francis stands. By now a crowd has assembled watching with idle interest. Arthur wonders why the second time he proposes, people watch, as if they are going to judge him for performance, romantics and general clichéd-ness of asking someone to marry you in France.

"Francis Bonnefoy," He forces the stutter out of his voice staring at the blue eyes, trying to force himself not to drop the ring as he grabbed the Frenchman's hand, "Will you marry me?"

Still smiling, but sweeter and quieter, Francis beams at him. "For the second time in the last two minutes, _oui._" Arthur quickly gets to his feet, puts the ring on Francis' finger and kisses him in an attempt to hide his glowing face. It is short, but the Briton doesn't want to make a show in the slowly dispersing crowd.

As he tries to pull away, Francis' arms tighten around him, keeping them just close enough that Arthur can feel hot breath in his ears, carrying whispered words. "But you are not the only one with a surprise tonight _Sourcils_," A finger pokes his hip and he looks down to see a silver ring sitting in the Frenchman's palm. "We seemed to have had the same plans." The chuckle sends tingles down his entire body.

Getting to his knee, Francis took Arthur's hand, trailing kisses along each knuckle. "Arthur, _mon cher_, _veux-tu m'epouser_?" the Englishman wasn't sure if his toes were still working as all the blood in his body seemed to be in his face.

"But I might drop the ring." Arthur says quietly, eyeing the silver band. It is newer than the one he has given to Francis and shines bright at him and all he can see is it flying over the side of the bridge and sinking deep into the darkness of the Seine.

"Here." Francis grabs his hand and slipped the ring on, holding his hands tenderly "It's the only way you won't lose it." The Frenchman chides playfully, standing and kissing him, longer and more avidly than before.

When they pull back, they are both panting and their trip back to the hotel takes twice as long as it should, as at every darken alley they stop to use the darkness to their advantage. By the time they stumble into the lobby and managed to get themselves into the elevator, Arthur was glad he had worn a large, loose jacket.

The hotel room is nothing like the _La Dolce Vita_ but Arthur doesn't care for anything but the way Francis touches him. How quick and practiced the fingers are as they pull at his clothes off, casting them aside. How warm and luscious the kisses are as Francis begins working on his own clothes. How wanting and harsh the voice is as it breathes hotly into his ear.

Arthur is thrown to the bed, gasping as he watches Francis struggle with his dress shoes swearing violently before crawling on top of the Englishman. "_Oh Sourcils_," He croons and Arthur turns his head at the soft tone, "How do you look so… 'shaggable' as you call it?"

By now, the Brit was desperate. This is the first time they've made it to the bed with the intention of going to whole way and the thought excites and frightens Arthur all at once. "Just shut up." He says, wrapping his arms around Francis' neck, pulling him into a deep kiss. Feeling the grin against his lips, Arthur barely has time to slip his tongue along the Frenchman's lip before he pulls back, trailing kisses down the Arthur's chest. "Bastard… You a-are despicable." He mutters, moaning as the hot mouth closes around his nipple, teasing it.

Francis stops his ministrations, glancing up at Arthur, his mouth agape and gasping slightly. "A-Arthur?" The voice trembles, unsure.

Groaning in frustration at being teased again, Arthur looks down at Francis. "What?" He demanded, unable to keep the snap from his voice. The Frenchman could be an utter mood-killer at the best of times.

Adam's apple bobbing, Francis' eyes fall from Arthur and the swollen lips close. "_Je t'aime…_" Again, the words are uncertain, barely audible.

The Englishman's heart skips a beat. Francis does not say that often, in fact, Arthur doesn't think he had said those words since their reunion in Rome. Unsure of how to react to the confession, Arthur lets his head fall back, running a hand through his hair. "I know you do Francis," He speaks to the ceiling, "I do know…" On reflection, he realizes that it is perhaps not the most compassionate of things to say.

Lower lip bitten in disappointment, Arthur watches as Francis continues to kiss his chest, but in a much more mechanical way, the thin hands exploring his body aimlessly. Immediately noticing the lack of passion they had less than a minute ago, Arthur tries to sit up, grabbing the Frenchman's shoulders. "Francis?"

"_Oui_?" Francis looks up curiously, as though Arthur hadn't said the least loving sentence ever uttered.

"I…" Shaking his head, Arthur wonders why, despite speaking the language for years he still manages to find himself without the proper words, "I do…_like_" -shit- "You Francis."

Blue eyes hurt and Francis pulls away, turning his back on Arthur. Hands reach back, lifting the blond hair so that it sits over one shoulder and Arthur swallows hard when the Frenchman speaks, "It's alright. I understand _Sourcils_." A weak chuckle that practically rips Arthur's soul, strangling it with guilt. "I was foolish to say anything."

Sliding off the bed, Arthur faces Francis, feeling the soft golden hair as he touches the high cheek, sliding his hand down the scruffed chin, and lifting it so that he can see into the hurt blue eyes. "It was hardly foolish…" He mutters, running his thumb fondly over Francis' cheek, "That was my fault, again."

A watery chuckle. "You are terrible at this romance thing _mon Anglais_."

"Perhaps we can fix that." Arthur slides onto the bed, gripping Francis' hips with his knees, straddling him. Using both hands, he holds Francis face, pushing their foreheads together. "I love you Francis Bonnefoy. Ever since you pulled me off that street and dragged me to Rome. It just took me some time to realize it."

Tears form at the corners of the blue eyes, arms wrap around his neck in a tender embrace and Arthur finds himself under Francis again. The Frenchman is gentler now, softly kissing him, pressing their chests together so that Arthur could feel the Frenchman's heart pounding furiously.

"You are wonderful." Francis whispers, pulling back to kiss the corner of the Brit's mouth before moving down the pale body, gently tending to his chest while beginning to slide off Arthur's pants and underwear. "Truly _Sourcils_." The kisses trail further down his abdomen - Arthur hands grip at Francis' shoulders - and his pants are soon on the ground, the Frenchman's hand on his length and warm lips on the inside of his thigh.

Moaning, Arthur closed his eyes as the mouth gently traced up his half-hard cock, planting a kiss on the head. "I k-know that." He shudders as Francis sucked gently at the tip, tongue swirling around the tip, slowly moving down his member. The Frenchman's fingers slowly massage his legs, just shy of his…vitals. "O-Oh God…" He thrusts up into Francis' warm mouth, eyes rolling into the back of his head. A year of no sex is finally getting to him.

Throat relaxing around Arthur, Francis taking half of him. "F-Francis…" the Brit moaned as Francis pulled back only to descend back, engulfing all of him. The Frenchman's tongue moved half-heartedly around the base. He was hard by now, letting go of Francis' shoulders and gripping at the sheet, twisting his head to the side, forcing his eyes shut.

Embarrassed, Arthur can already feel his edge coming quickly and he wished that he wasn't so easily turned on. Perhaps sending more time with Francis would remedy that. Before he could ponder his future with Francis, he saw the blue eyes glance up and take in the vision of the sweaty and bothered Englishman, grinning around Arthur, finally letting one of his hands press at the base of the hard member, tenderly stroking.

"F-Francis- I'm going to-" He shakes horribly, teeth gritting as the edges of his vision flashes white. Francis starts to move faster, sucking and humming, encouraging Arthur to finish. Eyes slamming shut, he moans the Frenchman's name as he comes into his mouth. "S-Shit! I-I'm sorry Francis! A-And our fi-first time too…" Sitting up, he runs a hand over his face in embarrassment.

Before the Englishman could react, Francis has pulled back, running a thumb along his cheek, licking the cum greedily. "Don't be sorry," Licking his lips, he grinned up at Arthur, gesturing vaguely at his erection, "But per'aps you will help me?" Moving his cum soaked hand towards Arthur's entrance.

Nodding dumbly, the Brit grabs Francis' shirt, pulling him onto the bed and pushing him against the headboard. "But I'll… top in a sense." He says sliding onto the Frenchman's legs, tossing the slacks aside.

"And 'ow do you plan on doing zat?" Francis asks, his hand nonchalantly pushing into Arthur's tight ring, just short of his prostate making Arthur's limp cock twitch slightly.

Leaning against Francis' shoulder, Arthur tries to keep his breathing steady. "Just sit." He whispers, nibbling the bottom of Francis' ear, lavishing kisses in the crook of his neck and along his jaw.

In response, the fingers in him curl, hitting his sweet spot, making him growl low in the back of his throat. He breathes deeply, willing himself to relax so that Francis pushes in another finger, gently stretching the tight entrance. Pulling himself off the Frenchman's shoulder, he stares at Francis, wonderful if his green eyes are as wanting as the blue ones.

"I love you." Arthur whispers.

"And these pants are getting rather tight." Francis responds wickedly, leaning forward and kissing Arthur, running his tongue along the swollen lips before slipping into Arthur's mouth so that the Brit can taste the faint remains of himself. Fingers fumbling with the pants for only a moment, Arthur lifting him so he can pull them off, casting the pants aside, still managing to keep his lips to Francis'.

Grabbing Francis' wrist, Arthur pulls the finger out of himself, shuddering slightly. "Let me." He whispers quietly against the Frenchman's lips, panting for breath before lowering himself onto Francis, trying to relax. Francis' groan travels straight to Arthur's ass and he pulls his mouth away, wrapping his arms so that he holds his lover close.

Francis quickly mirrors the move, holding Arthur close, giving him support while peppering the sweaty chest with light kisses. It takes the Englishman a moment to notice that each kiss is followed by a breathless '_je t'aime_.' Closing his eyes, Arthur lifts himself before slumping back down, slowly adjusting to the rhythm.

Quickly losing themselves in a haze of lust, they move as one for the first time. Francis' hips are gently as they rolls against Francis and Arthur pants heavily, kissing the Frenchman fervently, only pulling back when Francis tries to speak, his blue eyes hidden behind messy golden hair. "_Dieu…_ngh, A-Arthur…"

"It's alright Francis." Arthur says, his voice oddly confident for someone in a position as compromising as his own. Taking the Englishman's mouth in a tender, but short kiss, Francis' head snaps back as with one last thrust he climaxes, filling Arthur and collapsing against him, hugging him close.

Shifting to pull himself off of the Frenchman, Arthur leans into the embrace savouring the warm body against his own, relishing the after-glow in the pit of his gut. A lazy kiss is place at his cheek as Francis guides them under the covers, cuddling the small man closely. "Not bad for our first time, _mon cher_." The compliment makes Arthur blush almost as much as the term of affection.

"I love you." The Brit mutters, rubbing his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted, finding he really can't find anything else to say, as his heart is too full with the confession. "Even though you're a French prick."

When Francis laughs, Arthur feels the chest tremble behind him and smiles. "_Je vous aimerai pour toujours et toujours._" A soft kiss and the relaxing sigh of the body and he feels the blue eyes close, eyelashes brushing the top of his back, barely there. Arthur feels himself drifting away and breathes in deeply.

It is the first time Arthur falls asleep beside someone he loves.

* * *

**Author's Note**

So there it is. Your poorly-written porn XD; Enjoy~~


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